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Adventure, and endurance, and emprise
As ever shaven cenobite.
As fiercely as he fought. He would have borne
The maid that pleased him from her bower by night,
To his hill-castle, as the eagle bears
His victim from the fold, and rolled the rocks
On his pursuers. He aspired to see
His native Pisa queen and arbitress
Of cities: earnestly for her he raised
In battle-field, and climbed the galley's deck,
"He lived, the impersonation of an age That never shall return. His soul of fire Was kindled by the breath of the rude time He lived in. Now a gentler race succ ucceeds, Shuddering at blood; the effeminate cavalier, Turning his eyes from the reproachful past, And from the hopeless future, gives to ease, And love, and music, his inglorious life."
THE HUNTER OF THE PRAIRIES.
Ay, this is freedom!-these pure skies
Were never stained with village smoke: The fragrant wind, that through them flies, Is breathed from wastes by plough unbroke. Here, with my rifle and my steed,
And her who left the world for me, I plant me, where the red deer feed In the green desert—and am free.
For here the fair savannas know
The bison is my noble game;
Mine are the river-fowl that scream
The bear that marks my weapon's gleam,
The brinded catamount, that lies
With what free growth the elm and plane
Fling their huge arms across my way, Gray, old, and cumbered with a train
Of vines, as huge, and old, and gray! Free stray the lucid streams, and find
No taint in these fresh lawns and shades; Free spring the flowers that scent the wind Where never scythe has swept the glades.
Alone the Fire, when frost-winds sere
With roaring like the battle's sound, And hurrying flames that sweep the plain, And smoke-streams gushing up the sky: I meet the flames with flames again, And at my door they cower and die.
Here, from dim woods, the aged past
The boundless future in the vast
And lonely river, seaward rolled. Who feeds its founts with rain and dew; Who moves, I ask, its gliding mass, And trains the bordering vines, whose blue Bright clusters tempt me as I pass
Broad are these streams-my steed obeys, Plunges, and bears me through the tide. Wide are these woods-I thread the maze
Of giant stems, nor ask a guide. I hunt till day's last glimmer dies
O'er woody vale and grassy height; And kind the voice and glad the eyes That welcome my return at night.