The following poem will give some proof of all this,
and will not unfairly witness of the quality of Prati in most of the
poetry he has written:
THE MIDNIGHT RIDE.
I.
Ruello, Ruello, devour the way!
On your breath bear us with you, O winds, as ye swell!
My darling, she lies near her death to-day,--
Gallop, gallop, gallop, Ruel!
That my spurs have torn open thy flanks, alas!
With thy long, sad neighing, thou need'st not tell;
We have many a league yet of desert to pass,--
Gallop, gallop, gallop, Ruel!
Hear'st that mocking laugh overhead in space?
Hear'st the shriek of the storm, as it drives, swift and fell?
A scent as of graves is blown into my face,--
Gallop, gallop, gallop, Ruel!
Ah, God! and if that be the sound I hear
Of the mourner's song and the passing-bell!
O heaven! What see I? The cross and the bier?--
Gallop, gallop, gallop, Ruel!
Thou falt'rest, Ruello? Oh, courage, my steed!
Wilt fail me, O traitor I trusted so well?
The tempest roars over us,--halt not, nor heed!--
Gallop, gallop, gallop, Ruel!
Gallop, Ruello, oh, faster yet!
Good God, that flash! O God! I am chill,--
Something hangs on my eyelids heavy as death,--
Gallop, gallop, gallop, Ruel!
II.
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