. . .The dogs are at its haunches. The Prince looks back. He rides alone, His suite no longer follow, And he can hear no friendly cheer In answer to his holloa! What a chase! What a race! What a terrible pace! He's outridden his friends. It's a very queer case— Where can he have got? What's the name of the place He 'll never be able his steps to retrace! He pulls up his steed, Not too early, indeed, For the poor beast is finished, it shakes like a reed. If his home lay quite near, And he knew where to steer, His horse could not carry him there—that is clear. Meanwhile each lengthening shadow shows That day is drawing to a close. In two more hours the glowing sun Will down the western heavens run, And quench its glories manifold In yon bright sea of molten gold. Before him that. . . Read More