He starts, and ever thoughtful of his team, Along the glitt'ring snow a feeble gleam Shoots from his lantern, as he yawning goes To add fresh comforts to their night's repose; Diffusing fragrance as their food he moves And pats the jolly sides of those he loves. Thus full replenish'd, perfect ease possest, From night till morn alternate food and rest, No rightful cheer withheld, no sleep debar'd, Their each day's labour brings its sure reward. Yet when from plough or lumb'ring cart set free, They taste awhile the sweets of liberty: E'en sober _Dobbin_ lifts his clumsy heels And kicks, disdainful of the dirty wheels; But soon, his frolic ended, yields again To trudge the road, and wear the clinking chain. Short-sighted DOBBIN!... thou canst only see The trivial hardships that _encompass_ thee: Thy chains were freedom, and thy toils repose, 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 prompt the trav'eller on from stage to stage. Still on _his_ strength depends their boasted speed; For them his limbs grow weak, his bare ribs bleed; And though he groaning quickens at command, Their extra shilling in the rider's hand Becomes his bitter scourge:... 'tis _he_ must feel The double efforts of the lash and steel; Till when, up hill, the destin'd inn he gains, And trembling under complicated pains, Prone from his nostrils, darting on the ground, His breath emitted floats in clouds around: Drops chase each other down his chest and sides, And spatter'd 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-eyed 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 here his suff'rings ceas'd, And ample hours of rest his pains appeas'd! But rous'd again, and sternly bade to rise, And shake refreshing slumber from his eyes, Ere his exhausted spirits can return, Or through his frame reviving ardour burn, Come forth he must, tho' limping, maim'd, and sore; He hears the whip; the chaise is at the door:... The collar tightens, and again he feels His half-heal'd wounds inflam'd; again the wheels With tiresome sameness in his ears resound, O'er blinding dust, or miles of flinty ground. Thus nightly robb'd, and injur'd day by day, His piece-meal murd'rers wear his life away.