The wonders of the horse, anecdotes and poetry, selected by J. Taylor

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Joseph Taylor
1808
 

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Strana 125 - Canst thou make him afraid as a grasshopper ? The glory of his nostrils is terrible. He paweth in the valley, and rejoiceth in his strength: he goeth on to meet the armed men. He mocketh at fear, and is not affrighted ; neither turneth he back from the sword. The quiver
Strana 55 - THE fiery courser, when he hears from far, The sprightly trumpets and the shouts of war, Pricks up his ears, and trembling with delight, Shifts place, and paws, and hopes the promis'd sight. On his right shoulder, his thick mane reclin'd, Ruffles at speed, and dances in the wind : His horny hoofs
Strana 119 - that I am going to yield thee up? To Europeans, who will tie thee close, who will beat thee, who will render thee miserable ! Return with me, my beauty! my jewel! and rejoice the hearts of my children!
Strana 51 - mud his native colour hides; Thro' his swoln veins the boiling torrent flows, And every nerve a separate torture knows. His harness loos'd, he welcomes, eager-ey'd, The pail's full draught, that quivers by his side; And joys to see the well-known stable door, As the starv'd mariner the friendly shore. Ah ! well for him, if
Strana 125 - GOD, speaking to Job, asks him, " Hast thou given the horse strength ? Hast thou clothed his neck with thunder 1 Canst thou make him afraid as a grasshopper ? The glory of his nostrils is terrible. He paweth in the valley, and rejoiceth in his strength: he goeth on to meet the armed men. He mocketh at fear, and is not affrighted ; neither turneth he back from the sword. The quiver
Strana 55 - jetty, black, and round ; His chin is double : starting with a bound He turns the turf, and shakes the solid ground.. Fire from his eyes, clouds from his nostrils flow; He bears his rider headlong to the foe.
Strana 51 - COULD the poor Post-Horse tell thee all his woes, Shew thee his bleeding shoulders, and unfold The dreadful anguish he endures for gold ! Hir'd at each call of business, lust, or rage, That prompts the traveller
Strana 117 - his shining sides: His head, now freed, he tosses to the skies; His mane dishevel'd o'er his shoulder flies; He snuffs his females in the distant plain, And springs exulting to
Strana 57 - and lifeless, expos'd to the view, In the very same cart which he yesterday drew ; While a pitying crowd his sad relics surrounds, The high-mettled racer is sold for the hounds.
Strana 117 - The wanton courser oft, with reins unbound, Breaks from his stall and beats the trembling ground: Pamper'd and proud, he seeks the wonted tides,

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