Classic Poem

Poor little Foal of an oppressed Race!
I love the languid Patience of thy face:
And oft with gentle hand I give thee bread,
And clap thy ragged Coat, and pat thy head,
But what thy dulléd Spirits hath dismay'd,
That never thou dost sport along the glade?
And (most unlike the nature of things young)
That earth-ward still thy moveless head is hung?
Do thy prophetic Fears anticipate,
Meek Child of Misery! thy future fate?--
The starving meal, and all the thousand aches
'Which patient Merit of th' Unworthy takes?'
Or is thy sad heart thrill'd with filial pain
To see thy wretched Mother's shorten'd Chain?
And truly, very piteous is her Lot--
Chain'd to a Log within a narrow spot
Where the close-eaten Grass is scarcely seen,
While sweet around her waves the tempting Green!
Poor Ass! her Master should have learnt to shew
Pity--best taught by fellowship of woe!
For much I fear, that He lives, ev'n as she,
Half famish'd in a land of luxury!

How askingly It's footsteps t'ward me bend?
It seems to say, 'And have I then one Friend?'
Innocent Foal! thou poor despis'd Forlorn!
I hail thee Brother--spite of the fool's scorn!
And fain would take thee with then the Dell
Of Peace and mild Equality to dwell,
Where Toil shall call the charmer Health his bride,
And Laughter tickle Plenty's ribless side!
How thou wouldst toss thy heels in gamesome play,
And frisk about, as Lamb or Kitten gay!
Yea! and more musically sweet to me
Thy dissonant harsh Bray of Joy would be,
Than warbled Melodies that soothe to rest
The tumult of some scoundrel Monarch's breast!