MISCELLANEA. 
rsions ; they may partly describe it. I found them 
old papers: — 
I know by the ardour thou canst not restrain, 
By the curve of thy neck and the toss of thy mane, 
By the foam of thy snorting which spangles my brow, 
The fire of the Arab is hot in thee now. 
’Twere harsh to control thee, my frolicsome steed, — 
I give thee the rein, so away at thy speed; 
Thy rider will dare to be wilful as thee, 
Laugh the future to scorn, and partake in thy glee. 
Away to the mountain — what need we to fear ? 
Pursuit cannot press on my Fairy ' s career; 
Full light were the heel and well balanced the head 
That ventured to follow the track of thy tread ; 
Where roars the loud torrent, and starts the rude plank, 
And thunders the rock-sever’d mass down the bank, 
While, mirror’d in crystal, the far-shooting glow 
With dazzling effulgence is sparkling below. 
One start, and I die, yet in peace I recline, 
My bosom can rest on the fealty of thine ; 
Thou lov’st me, my sweet one, and would’st not be free 
From a yoke that has never borne rudely on thee. 
Ah ! pleasant the empire of those to confess 
Whose wrath is a whisper, their rule a caress. 
Behold how thy playmate is stretching beside, 
As loath to be vanquish’d in love or in pride, 
W T hile upward he glances his eyeball of jet, 
Half dreading thy fleetness may distance him yet. 
Ah, Marco, poor Marco ! — our pastime to-day 
Were reft of one pleasure if he were away. 
How precious these moments ! fair Freedom expands 
Her pinions of light o’er the desolate lands: 
The waters are flashing as bright as thine eye, 
Unchain’d as thy motion the breezes sweep by; 
Delicious they come, o’er the flower-scented earth 
Like whispers of love from the isle of my birth ; 
While the white-bosom’d Cistus her perfume exhales, 
And sighs out a spicy farewell to the gales. 
Unfear’d and unfearing we’ll traverse the wood, 
Where pours the rude torrent its turbulent flood : 
The forest’s red children will smile as we scour 
By the log-fashioned hut and the pine-woven bower ; 
Thy feathery footsteps scarce bending the grass, 
Or denting the dew -spangled moss where we pass. 
What startles thee ? — ’twas but the sentinel gun 
Flash’d a vesper salute to thy rival, the sun ; 
He has clos’d his swift progress before thee, and sweeps 
With fetlock of gold, the last verge of the steeps. 
The fire-fly anon from his covert shall glide, 
And dark fall the shadows of eve on the tide. 
>L. XX. 
3 R 
477 
among 
