Classic Poem

Poor Steed! in thee the faint remains I trace
Of noble courage, scarce in mis'ry fled;
Doom'd a mean tyrant's barb'rous lash to dread,
And drag the cruel load with tardy pace!
Alas! what boots it, that of high-bred race
With curling mane you rear'd the stately head,
And oft with lightning's speed triumphant led
To the warm glories of the gen'rous chace?
Of all thy faithful toils what fruit is thine?
Thy thankless master, who, when stiff'ning years
Chill'd thy high blood, with sordid av'rice gave
To hard unpitying hearts thy frail decline,
Expects a happier lot: thou, doom'd to tears,
Hast thou no hopes but in the gloomy grave?