IN FRENCH’ FIELDS.
269
CHEVAL ET CAVALIER.
My foot is in the stirrup—on!
'Tis time, my steed, that we were gone.
The daylight wears:
Thy poor, poor master turneth mad,
We must be gone—the words are sad—
Who cares!
Fast in a net-work, she had thought,
Of siren love I had been caught,
And so she hurled
Contemptuous words; but I am free—
Place, place between her pride and me
The world.
Light were our steps, our spirits gay,
When thus we journeyed day by day
Beneath the firs,
To see the fair in her abode.
Now, we must shun the beaten road
To hers.
How proud she is of all her charms,
False gods I worshipped—rounded arms,
A colour pale,
A mirrored heaven in dark blue eyes,
A red mouth whence coquettish sighs
Exhale.
