And yet, ah! what sculptor who saw thee stand, As thou standest now, on thy Native Strand, With the wild wind ruffling thine uncomb’d hair, And thy nostril upturn’d to the od’rous air, Would not woo thee to pause till his skill might trace At leisure the lines of that eager face; The collarless neck and the coal-black paws And the bit grasp’d tight in the massive jaws; The delicate curve of the legs, that seem Too slight for their burden—and, O, the gleam Of that eye, so sombre and yet so gay! Still away, my lithe Arab, once more away! Nay, tempt me not, Arab, again to stay; Since I crave neither Echo nor Fun to-day. For thy _hand_ is not Echoless—there they are Fun, Glowworm, and Echo, and Evening Star: And thou hintest withal that thou fain would’st shine, As I con them, these bulgy old boots of mine. But I shrink from thee, Arab! Thou eat’st eel-pie, Thou evermore hast at least one black eye; There is brass on thy brow, and thy swarthy hues Are due not to nature but handling shoes; And the hit in thy mouth, I regret to see, Is a bit of tobacco-pipe—Flee, child, flee! LINES ON HEARING THE ORGAN. GRINDER, who serenely grindest At my door the Hundredth Psalm, Till thou ultimately findest Pence in thy unwashen palm: Grinder, jocund-hearted Grinder, Near whom Barbary’s nimble son, Poised with skill upon his hinder Paws, accepts the proffered bun: Dearly do I love thy grinding; Joy to meet thee on thy road Where thou prowlest through the blinding Dust with that stupendous load, ’Neath the baleful star of Sirius, When the postmen slowlier jog, And the ox becomes delirious, And the muzzle decks the dog. Tell me by what art thou bindest On thy feet those ancient shoon: Tell me, Grinder, if thou grindest Always, always out of tune. Tell me if, as thou art buckling On thy straps with eager claws, Thou forecastest, inly chuckling, All the rage that thou wilt cause. Tell me if at all thou mindest When folks flee, as if on wings, From thee as at ease thou grindest: Tell me fifty thousand things. Grinder, gentle-hearted Grinder! Ruffians who led evil lives, Soothed by thy sweet strains, are kinder To their bullocks and their wives: Children, when they see thy supple Form approach, are out like shots; Half-a-bar sets several couple Waltzing in convenient spots; Not with clumsy Jacks or Georges: Unprofaned by grasp of man Maidens speed those simple orgies, Betsey Jane with Betsey Ann. As they love thee in St. Giles’s Thou art loved in Grosvenor Square: None of those engaging smiles is Unreciprocated there. Often, ere yet thou hast hammer’d Through thy four delicious airs, Coins are flung thee by enamour’d Housemaids upon area stairs: