Breathes of their native plains, they ramp and rear,。，To the breast of the blue;
Chirping and singing the live day long,。，High-blooded mares just tempering to the bit,
。，Burst from their ports impregnable, a stream
O thou, if injured, injured not by me,。，O, to spare her pain,
And every little bird under the sun。，What clung in his arms?
Mist hangs still on every hill,。，'Mongst the old woods and timid-glancing flowers
Cracks, and out the creature springs,。，Whose manes at full-speed stream upon the winds,
Now the chrysalis on the wall。，A merry morning and a mighty tide.
The snowdrop may be low,。，And the bounding light
Nor could the prowess of our chiefs oppose。，Like Sir Gawain, gentles, should we?
The mother's tears, the nation's stormful grief,。，As though the Sun-god's chariot alone
And curls up the valleys at eve; but noon。，Of radiance, till at the pitch of noon
And weep themselves naked and weary with woe.。，With wild importunate cries and angry wail;
Unbounded like our mortal brain, perceive。，On one slope green with spring delight,
And Roland's lonely love and Hildegard's sad vow.。，Hark! how the bitter winter breezes blow
Waves gather back to heave themselves anew.。，I wander, fill'd with joy.
，And old romantic haze:-。，In visible, inviolate repose.