In the wind his mane blown back, With a frantic plunge and neigh,-- In the shadow a shadow black, Ever wilder he flies away,-- Through the tempest and the night, Like a winged thing in flight. From his throbbing flanks arise Smokes of fever and of sweat,-- Over him the pebble flies From his swift feet swifter yet,-- Through the tempest and the night, Like a winged thing in flight. From the cliff unto the wood, Twenty leagues he passed in all; Soaked with bloody foam and blood, Blind he struck against the wall: Death is in the seat; no more Stirs the steed that flew before. III. And the while, upon the colorless, Death-white visage of the dying Maiden, still and faint and fair, Rosy lights arise and wane; And her weakness lifting tremulous From the couch where she was lying Her long, beautiful, loose hair Strives she to adorn in vain. “Mother, what it is has startled me From my sleep I cannot tell thee: Only, rise and deck me well In my fairest robes again. For, last night, in the thick silences,-- I know not how it befell me,-- But the gallop of Ruel, More than once I heard it plain. “Look, O mother, through yon shadowy Trees, beyond their gloomy cover: Canst thou not an atom see Toward us from the distance start? Seest thou not the dust rise cloudily, And above the highway hover? Come at last! 'T is he! 't is he! Mother, something breaks my heart.” Ah, poor child! she raises wearily Her dim eyes, and, turning slowly, Seeks the sun, and leaves this strife With a loved name in her breath. Ah, poor child! in vain she waited him. In the grave they made her lowly Bridal bed. And thou, O life! Hast no hopes that know not death? Among Prati's patriotic poems, I have read one which seems to me rather vivid, and which because it reflects yet another phase of that great Italian resurrection, as well as represents Prati in one of his best moods, I will give here: THE SPY. With ears intent, with eyes abased, Like a shadow still my steps thou hast chased; If I whisper aught to my friend, I feel Thee follow quickly upon my heel. Poor wretch, thou fill'st me with loathing; fly! Thou art a spy! When thou eatest the bread that thou dost win With the filthy wages of thy sin, The hideous face of treason anear Dost thou not see? dost thou not fear? Poor wretch, thou fill'st me with loathing; fly! Thou art a spy! The thief may sometimes my pity claim; Sometimes the harlot for her shame; Even the murderer in his chains A hidden fear from me constrains; But thou only fill'st me with loathing; fly! Thou art a spy!