My crimson’d heels, and thy torn flanks to find.
Pardon my fury! beats upon my eye
The sorrowing tear. Friend, when my shouts declare
Impatience, then the biting spur to spare
Wait not, but toss thy mane, thy head, and fly.
THE SEASON OF THE NORTHERS.
The wearying summer’s burning heat
Is now assuaged; for from the North
The winds from frost come shaken forth,
’Midst clouds o’er Cuba rushing fleet,