LA CAVALE.
O lank-haired Corsican! how grand was France
In the fair summer month of Messidor!
A wild steed, with the lightnings in her glance,—
Free—free, she owned nor king nor conqueror.
No hand had ever touched her. None could dare
With insult or with outrage wound her pride;
Upon her flanks no housings would she bear;
Untameable, the nations she defied.
A virgin skin; thin nostrils; fetlocks made
For speed and strength; the mane a flag unfurled;
Upon her haunches rising, when she neighed,
A terror ran through Europe and the world.
Thou camest and beheld'st her attitude,
Her restless croup and supple empty back;
One spring! And then away—O Centaur rude,
Thy spur she feels—choose, choose at will thy track.
Henceforth, as aye she loved the trumpet's sound,
The smell of powder, and the flash of gun,
For race-course, she had earth without a bound—
For pastime, battles which she always won.
