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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

TO A HORSE (WRITTEN IN AMERICA), by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: I know by the ardour thou canst not restrain
Last Line: And a long look reverts to yon shadowy plain.
Alternate Author Name(s): Browne, Charlotte Elizabeth


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.
'T were harsh to control thee, my frolicksome 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-severed mass down the bank,
While mirror'd in chrystal 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 loth to be vanquish'd in love or in pride,
While upward he glances his eye-ball 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 swept 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.
Unfeared and unfearing we'll traverse the wood,
Where pours the rude torrent the turbulent flood:
The forest's red children will smile as we scour
By the log-fashion'd hut and the pine-woven bower;
The feather footsteps scarce bending the grass,
Or denting the dew-spangled moss where we pass.

What startles thee? 'T was but the sentinel gun
Flashed a vesper salute to thy rival the sun:
He has closed 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.
Tread softly -- my spirit is joyous no more,
A northern aurora, it shone and is o'er;
The tears will fall fast as I gather the rein,
And a long look reverts to yon shadowy plain.





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