Sails onwards from the south—and last of all
Arrives the northern devil; by their aid
He forms a wondrous bridle, which he fits
Upon a jet black steed, whose back, nor clothes,
Nor saddle, e'er encumber'd—Up he mounts,
Cleaves the thin air like shaft from Turkish bow,
Eyes with contemptuous gaze the fading earth,
And caprioles amongst the painted clouds.
Oft, too, with rites unhallow'd, from the neck
Of his dark courser he will pluck the locks,