And we’ll start the wild deer from his slumbering lair;
The leap of the cascade, and dash of the spray,
Shall echo more faint as we hurry away.
Come forth, my brave steed—far truer art thou
Than the smile on the lip, or the light on the brow;
More faithful than promises lovers may breathe,
Or the garlands of fame that a nation may wreath.
Come forth—I am ready—hurrah for the hills,
Whilst the harp-string of pleasure with ecstasy thrills;
No hour like the morning—no scene like to this