"Away, away, my steed and I,
Upon the pinions of the wind.
All human dwellings left behind; 425
We sped like meteors through the sky,
When with its crackling sound the night
Is chequer'd with the northern light.
Town--village--none were on our track,
But a wild plain of far extent, 430
And bounded by a forest black;
And, save the scarce seen battlement
On distant heights of some stronghold,
Against the Tartars built of old,
No trace of man: the year before 435
A Turkish army had march'd o'er;
And where the Spahi's[139] hoof hath trod,
The verdure flies the bloody sod.
The sky was dull, and dim, and gray,
And a low breeze crept moaning by-- 440
I could have answer'd with a sigh--
But fast we fled, away, away--
And I could neither sigh nor pray;
And my cold sweat-drops fell like rain
Upon the courser's bristling mane; 445
But, snorting still with rage and fear,
He flew upon his far career.
At times I almost thought, indeed,
He must have slacken'd in his speed;
But no--my bound and slender frame 450
Was nothing to his angry might,
And merely like a spur became:
Each motion which I made to free
My swoln limbs from their agony
Increased his fury and affright: 455
I tried my voice,--'twas faint and low,
But yet he swerved as from a blow;
And, starting to each accent, sprang
As from a sudden trumpet's clang.
Meantime my cords were wet with gore, 460
Which, oozing through my limbs, ran o'er;
And in my tongue the thirst became
A something fierier far than flame.