Under its arching gateway, and there stood,
Curbing the hot steed that, with upreared hoofs,
Bearing upon the gilded bit, pressed forward.
Her eyes had measured distance, and her lips,
Parted and eager, seemed to drink the air
Now fresh with morning, and her light form kept
Its throne exultingly. A single plume
Waved from her hunting-cap, and the quick wind
Close to the floating ringlets of her hair
Pressed down its snowy fringes. But the folds