XI.
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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, 430And bounded by a forest black[263];And, save the scarce seen battlementOn distant heights of some strong hold,Against the Tartars built of old,No trace of man. The year beforeA 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-- 440I 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 rainUpon 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 frame 450Was nothing to his angry might,And merely like a spur became:Each motion which I made to freeMy swoln limbs from their agonyIncreased 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, sprangAs from a sudden trumpet's clang:Meantime my cords were wet with gore, 460Which, oozing through my limbs, ran o'er;And in my tongue the thirst becameA something fierier far than flame.
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