Oft in this season too the horse, provoked
While his big sinews full of spirits swell,
Trembling with vigor, in the heat of blood,
Springs the high fence.... his nervous chest,
Luxuriant and erect, the seat of strength!
_The Seasons: Summer_. J. THOMSON.
Champing his foam, and bounding o'er the plain,
Arch his high neck, and graceful spread his mane.
_The Courser_. SIR R. BLACKMORE.
Is it the wind those branches stirs?
No, no! from out the forest prance
A trampling troop; I see them come!
In one vast squadron they advance!
I strove to cry,--my lips were dumb.
The steeds rush on in plunging pride;
But where are they the reins to guide!
A thousand horse,--and none to ride!
With flowing tail, and flying mane,
Wide nostrils, never stretched by pain,
Mouths bloodless to the bit or rein,
And feet that iron never shod,
And flanks unscarred by spur or rod,
A thousand horse, the wild, the free,
Like waves that follow o'er the sea,
Came thickly thundering on.
_Mazeppa_. LORD BYRON.
I holde a mouses herte nat worth a leek.
That hath but oon hole for to sterte to.
_Preamble, Wyves Tale of Bath_. CHAUCER.
When now, unsparing as the scourge of war,
Blast follow blasts and groves dismantled roar;
Around their home the storm-pinched cattle lows,
No nourishment in frozen pasture grows.
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