"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, My blood reflowed, though thick and chill; My ear with uncouth noises rang, My heart began once more to thrill; My sight returned, though dim, alas! And thickened, 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 My stiffened limbs were rebaptized, My courser's broad breast proudly braves, And dashes off the ascending waves, And onward we advance! We reach the slippery shore at length, A haven I but little prized, For all behind was dark and drear, And all before was night and fear. How many hours of night or day In those suspended pangs I lay, I could not tell; I scarcely knew If this were human breath I drew.
"With glossy skin, and dripping mane, And reeling limbs, and reeking flank, The wild steed's sinewy nerves still strain Up the repelling bank. We gain the top: a boundless plain 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 scattered spot of dusky green, In masses broke into the light, As rose the moon upon my right. But naught 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 To make him merry with my woes: That very cheat had cheered me then! Although detected, welcome still, Reminding me, through every ill, Of the abodes of men.
"Onward we went,—but slack and slow; His savage force at length o'erspent, The drooping courser, faint and low, All feebly foaming went. A sickly infant had had power To guide him forward in that hour; But useless all to me. His new-born tameness naught availed, My limbs were bound; my force had failed, Perchance, had they been free. With feeble effort still I tried To rend the bonds so starkly tied,— But still it was in vain; My limbs were only wrung the more, And soon the idle strife gave o'er, Which but prolonged their pain: The dizzy race seemed almost done, Although no goal was nearly won: Some streaks announced the coming sun.— How slow, alas! he came! Methought that mist of dawning gray Would never dapple into day; How heavily it rolled away,— Before the eastern flame Rose crimson, and deposed the stars, And called the radiance from their cars, And filled the earth, from his deep throne, With lonely lustre, all his own.
"Up rose the sun; the mists were curled Back from the solitary world Which lay around—behind—before: What booted it to traverse o'er Plain, forest, river? Man nor brute, Nor dint of hoof, nor print of foot, Lay in the wild luxuriant soil; No sign of travel,—none of toil; The very air was mute; And not an insect's shrill small horn, Nor matin bird's new voice was borne From herb nor thicket. Many a werst, Panting as if his heart would burst, The weary brute still staggered on; And still we were—or seemed—alone: At length, while reeling on our way, 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 main, Wide nostrils,—never stretched by pain,— Mouths bloodless to the bit or rein, And feet that iron never shod, And flanks unscarred 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; The sight renerved my courser's feet, A moment staggering, feebly fleet, A moment, with a faint low neigh, He answered, and then fell; With gasps and glazing eyes he lay, And reeking limbs immovable, His first and last career is done! 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 seemed the patriarch of his breed, Without a single speck or hair Of white upon his shaggy hide; They snort—they foam—neigh—swerve aside, And backward to the forest fly, By instinct from a human eye,— They left me there, to my despair, Linked to the dead and stiffening wretch, Whose lifeless limbs beneath me stretch, Relieved from that unwonted weight, From whence I could not extricate Nor him nor me,—and there we lay, The dying on the dead!
Byron.
THE GIAOUR'S RIDE.
Who thundering comes on blackest steed, With slackened bit and hoof of speed? Beneath the clattering iron's sound The caverned echoes wake around In lash for lash, and bound for bound; The foam that streaks the courser's side Seems gathered from the ocean-tide: Though weary waves are sunk to rest, There's none within his rider's breast; And though to-morrow's tempest lower, 'Tis calmer than thy heart, young Giaour! I know thee not, I loathe thy race, But in thy lineaments I trace What time shall strengthen, not efface: Though young and pale, that sallow front Is scathed by fiery passion's brunt; Though bent on earth thine evil eye, As meteor-like thou glidest by, Right well I view and deem thee one Whom Othman's sons should slay or shun.
On—on he hastened, and he drew My gaze of wonder as he flew: Though like a demon of the night He passed, and vanished from my sight, His aspect and his air impressed A troubled memory on my breast, And long upon my startled ear Rung his dark courser's hoofs of fear. He spurs his steed; he nears the steep, That, jutting, shadows o'er the deep; He winds around; he hurries by; The rock relieves him from mine eye; For well I ween unwelcome he Whose glance is fixed on those that flee; And not a star but shines too bright On him who takes such timeless flight. He wound along; but ere he passed One glance he snatched, as if his last, A moment checked his wheeling steed, A moment breathed him from his speed, A moment on his stirrup stood— Why looks he o'er the olive wood? The crescent glimmers on the hill, The Mosque's high lamps are quivering still: Though too remote for sound to wake In echoes of the far tophaike, The flashes of each joyous peal Are seen to prove the Moslem's zeal, To-night, set Rhamazani's sun; To-night, the Bairam feast's begun; To-night—but who and what art thou Of foreign garb and fearful brow? And what are these to thine, or thee, That thou should'st either pause or flee?