There, o'er his dogrose fence, the chestnut foal,
Shaking his silver forelock, proudly stands,—
To snuff the balmy fragrance of the morn:—
Up comes his ebon compeer, and, anon,
Around the field in mimic chase they fly,
Startling the echoes of the woodland gloom.
Farewell, ye placid scenes! amid the land
Ye smile, an inland solitude: the voice
Of peace-destroying man is seldom heard
Amid your landscapes. Beautiful ye raise