"Away!—away!—my steed and I,

Upon the pinions of the wind!

All human dwellings left behind,

We sped like meteors through the sky,

When with its crackling sound the night[262]

Is chequered 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[263];

And, save the scarce seen battlement

On distant heights of some strong hold,

Against the Tartars built of old,

No trace of man. The year before

A Turkish army had marched o'er;

And where the Spahi's 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 answered 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;

But, snorting still with rage and fear,

He flew upon his far career:

At times I almost thought, indeed,

He must have slackened in his speed;

But no—my bound and slender frame450

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:

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.