My heart turn'd sick, my brain grew sore,
And throbb'd awhile, then beat no more:
The skies spun like a mighty wheel;

I saw the trees like drunkards reel,

And a slight flash sprang o'er my eyes,
Which saw no farther: he who dies

Can die no more than then I died.

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515

"My thoughts came back; where was I? Cold,

And numb, and giddy: pulse by pulse

Life reassumed its lingering hold,

And throb by throb,-till grown a pang

Which for a moment would convulse,

540

My blood reflow'd, though thick and chill;
My ear with uncouth noises rang,

My heart began once more to thrill;
My sight return'd, though dim; alas!
And thicken'd, as it were, with glass.
Methought the dash of waves was nigh;
There was a gleam too of the sky,
Studded with stars;—it is no dream;
The wild horse swims the wilder stream!
The bright broad river's gushing tide
Sweeps, winding onward, far and wide,
And we are half-way, struggling o'er
To yon unknown and silent shore.
The waters broke my hollow trance,
And with a temporary strength

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Spreads through the shadow of the night,
And onward, onward, onward, seems,
Like precipices in our dreams,

To stretch beyond the sight;

And here and there a speck of white,
Or scatter'd spot of dusky green,
In masses broke into the light,
As rose the moon upon my right:
But nought distinctly seen

In the dim waste would indicate
The omen of a cottage gate;
No twinkling taper from afar
Stood like a hospitable star;
Not even an ignis-fatuus rose

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585

My limbs were bound; my force had fail'd,

600

With feeble effort still I tried

Perchance, had they been free.

To rend the bonds so starkly tied,
But still it was in vain;

And fill'd the earth, from his deep throne,
With lonely luster, all his own.

1 Werst or verst. A Russian unit of length, measuring nearly two thirds

635

of an English mile.

Methought I heard a courser neigh,
From out yon tuft of blackening firs.
Is it the wind those branches stirs?
No, no! from out the forest prance

A trampling troop; I see them come!
In one vast squadron they advance!

I strove to cry-my lips were dumb. The steeds rush on in plunging pride; But where are they the reins to guide? A thousand horse, and none to ride! With flowing tail, and flying mane, Wide nostrils never stretch'd by pain, Mouths bloodless to the bit or rein,

And feet that iron never shod,

And flanks unscarr'd by spur or rod,
A thousand horse, the wild, the free,
Like waves that follow o'er the sea,

Came thickly thundering on,

As if our faint approach to meet;

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On came the troop-they saw him stoop,

They saw me strangely bound along
His back with many a bloody thong:
They stop, they start, they snuff the air,
Gallop a moment here and there,
Approach, retire, wheel round and round,
Then plunging back with sudden bound,
Headed by one black mighty steed,
Who seem'd the patriarch of his breed,

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670