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He springs—he spurs—he speeds—he flies along,
O'er plains, and changing fields, for many a day,
And sometimes he is followed by a throng
Of peasants thro' the dark and doubtful way;
And long they wander—long, ere "Desolation"
Breaks on the inquiring eye of expectation,
And long they track the irriguous path, ere yet
They reach the village for their boundary set.
Morn, early morn, had driven from mortal eyne
All the delusions, all the dreams of sleep:
"O golden mother—golden mother mine—
Strange visions broke upon my slumbers deep
Ere brightening clouds had waked the orient dawning,
Ere night withdrew from heaven its raven awning,
A sad disquiet had disturb'd my breast,
And mingling voices rous'd me from my rest.'
"It was just past the hour of middle night—
I thought I was in iron fetters bound—
I cried—I sought relief in my affright,
But sought in vain—for all was darkness round:
