Page:Poems on Various Subjects - Coleridge (1796).djvu/111



OOR 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 dulled 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?—