Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE COLT AND THE FARMER, by EDWARD MOORE (1712-1757)


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE COLT AND THE FARMER, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Tell me, corinna, if you can
Last Line: A living death, from year to year.'
Subject(s): Animals; Beauty; Charm; Farm Life; Horses; Women; Agriculture; Farmers


TELL me, Corinna, if you can,
Why so averse, so coy to man?
Did Nature, lavish of her care,
From her best pattern form you fair,
That you, ungrateful to her cause,
Should mock her gifts and spurn her laws,
And miser-like withhold that store
Which, by imparting, blesses more?
Beauty's a gift by Heav'n assign'd
The portion of the female kind;
For this the yielding maid demands
Protection at her lover's hands;
And though by wasting years it fade,
Remembrance tells him, once 'twas paid.
And will you then this wealth conceal,
For age to rust, or time to steal;
The summer of your youth to rove,
A stranger to the joys of love?
Then when life's winter hastens on,
And youth's fair heritage is gone,
Dow'rless to court some peasant's arms,
To guard your wither'd age from harms;
No gratitude to warm his breast,
For blooming beauty once possest;
How will you curse that stubborn pride
Which drove your bark across the tide,
And, sailing before Folly's wind,
Left sense and happiness behind?
Corinna, lest these whims prevail,
To such as you I write my tale.
A Colt for blood and mettled speed,
The choicest of the running breed,
Of youthful strength and beauty vain,
Refus'd subjection to the rein.
In vain the groom's officious skill
Oppos'd his pride and check'd his will,
In vain the master's forming care
Restrain'd with threats or sooth'd with pray'r;
Of freedom proud, and scorning man,
Wild o'er the spacious plains he ran.
Where'er luxuriant Nature spread
Her flowery carpet o'er the mead,
Or bubbling streams soft-gliding pass,
To cool and freshen up the grass,
Disdaining bounds, he cropp'd the blade,
And wanton'd in the spoil he made.
In plenty thus the summer past,
Revolving winter came at last;
The trees no more a shelter yield,
The verdure withers from the field,
Perpetual snows infest the ground,
In icy chains the streams are bound,
Cold nipping winds and rattling hail
His lank unshelter'd sides assail.
As round he cast his rueful eyes
He saw the thatch'd-roof cottage rise;
The prospect touch'd his heart with cheer,
And promis'd kind deliverance near;
A stable, erst his scorn and hate,
Was now become his wish'd retreat:
His passion cool, his pride forgot,
A Farmer's welcome yard he sought.
The Master saw his woful plight,
His limbs that totter'd with his weight,
And friendly to the stable led,
And saw him litter'd, dress'd, and fed.
In slothful ease all night he lay;
The servants rose at break of day:
The market calls: along the road
His back must bear the pondrous load:
In vain he struggles or complains,
Incessant blows reward his pains.
To-morrow varies but his toil;
Chain'd to the plough he breaks the soil,
While scanty meals at night repay
The painful labours of the day.
Subdued by toil, with anguish rent,
His self-upbraidings found a vent:
'Wretch that I am! (he sighing said)
By arrogance and folly led,
Had but my restive youth been brought
To learn the lesson Nature taught,
Then had I, like my sires of yore,
The prize from every courser bore,
While man bestow'd rewards and praise,
And females crown'd my latter days:
Now lasting servitude's my lot,
My birth contemn'd, my speed forgot:
Doom'd am I, for my pride, to bear
A living death, from year to year.'





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