IN FRENCH FIELDS.
257
There's a rattle of pleasure, his neck is erect,
Bare, musculous; he peers his flight to direct.
He stirs, whipping up, the sharp snow of the Andes,
He mounts the blue ether with a hoarse cry that grand is,
Far, far from this globe, by night's banner defended,
Far, far from its noise, from its strife, its endeavour,
A speck, but a speck, and as frozen for ever
He sleeps in the air, with his wings wide-extended.
