Still mused he on the morrow’s toilsome flight,
Through unknown wilds and trackless wastes of snow;
How to elude the persecutor’s sight,
Or shun the eager quest of following foe,
Tasked his invention with no labor light—
And long, and slow, and lagging was the night.
XXVIII.
And if by fits came intervening sleep,
Through deserts wild and rugged roved his soul,