A POEM BY BULWEK. 17 



any one but an ardent horseman would imagine from 

 hearing the most vivid account of some celebrated run. 

 There is a little piece 'of poetry, written by one of the 

 titled sons of that country whose boast is that it sur- 

 passes all others for beautiful woman, fine horses and 

 grand trees. I read it more than a score of years ago for 

 the first time, and have read it so often that I still know 

 every word of it. I will repeat it, but my rehearsal will 

 not do it justice. It may not even be good poetry, I do 

 not claim to be a judge of what the critics would call 

 good, still it is fair to presume that what pleased me so 

 well, will have some charms for you: 



Come forth, my brave steed the sun shines on the vale, 

 And the morning is bearing its balm on the gale, 

 Come forth, my brave steed, and brush off as we pass, 

 With the hoofs of thy speed, the bright dew from the grass. 



Let the lover go warble his strains to the fair 

 I regard not his rapture, and heed not his care ; 

 But now, as we bound o'er the mountain and lea, 

 I'll wave, my brave steed, a mild measure to thee. 



Away and away I exult in the glow 

 Which is breaking its pride to my cheek as we go ; 

 And blithely my spirit springs forth as the air 

 Which is waving the mane of thy dark flowing hair. 



Hail, thou gladness of heart and thou freshness of soul, 

 Which have never come o'er me in pleasure's control 

 Which the dance and the revel, the bowl and the board, 

 Tho'- they flush'd and they fever'd, could never afford. 



In the splendor of solitude speed we along, 



Thro' the silence but broke by the wild linnet's song ; 



Not a sight to the eye, not a sound to the ear, 



To tell us that sin and that sorrow are near. 



Away and away, and away then we pass 

 The blind mole shall not hear the light foot on the grass ; 

 And the time which is flying, while I am with thee, 

 Peems as swift as thyself as we bound o'er the lea. 



