We rustled through the leaves like wind, Left shrubs, and trees, and wolves behind. By night I heard them on the track, Their troop came hard upon our back, With their long gallop, which can tire The hound's deep hate and hunter's fire: Where'er we flew they followed on, Nor left us with the morning sun; Behind I saw them, scarce a rood, At daybreak winding through the wood, And through the night had heard their feet Their stealing, rustling step repeat. Oh! how I wished for spear or sword, At least to die amidst the horde, And perish--if it must be so-- At bay, destroying many a foe. When first my courser's race begun, I wished the goal already won; But now I doubted strength and speed. Vain doubt! his swift and savage breed Had nerved him like the mountain roe; Not faster falls the blinding snow Which whelms the peasant near the door Whose threshold he shall cross no more, Bewildered with the dazzling blast, Than through the forest-paths he passed-- Untired, untamed, and worse than wild; All furious as a favored child Balked of its wish; or fiercer still-- A woman piqued--who has her will. . . . . . . . Onward we went--but slack and slow: His savage force at length o'erspent, The drooping courser, faint and low, All feebly foaming went.... At length, while reeling on our way, Methought I heard a courser neigh, From out yon tuft of blackening firs. Is it the wind those branches stirs? No, no! from out the forest prance A trampling troop; I see them come! In one vast squadron they advance! I strove to cry--my lips were dumb. The steeds rush on in plunging pride; But where are they the reins to guide? A thousand horse--and none to ride! With flowing tail, and flying mane, Wide nostrils, never stretched by pain, Mouths bloodless to the bit or rein, And feet that iron never shod, And flanks unscarred by spur or rod, A thousand horse, the wild, the free, Like waves that follow o'er the sea, Came thickly thundering on, As if our faint approach to meet; The sight re-nerved my courser's feet; A moment staggering, feebly fleet, A moment, with a faint low neigh, He answered, and then fell; With gasps and glazing eyes he lay, And reeking limbs immovable-- His first and last career is done! THE IRISH AVATÀR Ere the Daughter of Brunswick is cold in her grave, And her ashes still float to their home o'er the tide, Lo! George the triumphant speeds over the wave, To the long-cherished Isle which he loved like his--bride. True, the great of her bright and brief era are gone, The rainbow-like epoch where Freedom could pause For the few little years, out of centuries won, Which betrayed not, or crushed not, or wept not her cause.