An angry man, ye may opine, | |
Was he, the proud Count Palatine; | |
And he had reason good to be, | |
345 | But he was most enraged lest such |
An accident should chance to touch | |
Upon his future pedigree; | |
Nor less amazed, that such a blot | |
His noble ’scutcheon should have got, | |
350 | While he was highest of his line; |
Because unto himself he seem’d | |
The first of men, nor less he deem’d | |
In others’ eyes, and most in mine. | |
‘Sdeath! with a | |
355 | Had reconciled him to the thing; |
But with a stripling of a page — | |
I felt – but cannot paint his rage. | |
IX | |
‘ “Bring forth the horse!” – the horse was brought; | |
In truth, he was a noble steed, | |
360 | A Tartar of the Ukraine breed, |
Who look’d as though the speed of thought | |
Were in his limbs; but he was wild, | |
Wild as the wild deer, and untaught, | |
With spur and bridle undefiled — | |
365 | ’Twas but a day he had been caught |
And snorting, with erected mane, | |
And struggling fiercely, but in vain, | |
In the full foam of wrath and dread | |
To me the desert-born was led: | |
370 | They bound me on, that menial throng, |
Upon his back with many a thong; | |
Then loosed him with a sudden lash – | |
Away! – away! – and on we dash! – | |
Torrents less rapid and less rash. | |
X | |
375 | ‘Away! – away! – My breath was gone – |
I saw not where he hurried on: | |
’Twas scarcely yet the break of day, | |
And on he foam’d – away! – away! – | |
The last of human sounds which rose, | |
380 | As I was darted from my foes, |
Was the wild shout of savage laughter, | |
Which on the wind came roaring after | |
A moment from that rabble rout: | |
With sudden wrath I wrench’d my head, | |
385 | And snapp’d the cord, which to the mane |
Had bound my neck in lieu of rein, | |
And, writhing half my form about, | |
Howl’d back my curse; but ’midst the tread, | |
The thunder of my courser’s speed, | |
390 | Perchance they did not hear nor heed: |
It vexes me — for I would fain | |
Have paid their insult back again. | |
I paid it well in after days: | |
There is not of that castle gate, | |
395 | Its drawbridge and portcullis’ weight, |
Stone, bar, moat, bridge, or barrier left; | |
Nor of its fields a blade of grass, | |
Save what grows on a ridge of wall, | |
Where stood the hearth-stone of the hall; | |
400 | And many a time ye there might pass, |
Nor dream that e’er that fortress was: | |
I saw its turrets in a blaze, | |
Their crackling battlements all cleft, | |
And the hot lead pour down like rain | |
405 | From off the scorch’d and blackening roof, |
Whose thickness was not vengeance-proof. | |
They little thought that day of pain, | |
When launch’d, as on the lightning’s flash, | |
They bade me to destruction dash, | |
410 | That one day I should come again, |
With twice five thousand horse, to thank | |
The Count for his uncourteous ride. | |
They play’d me then a bitter prank, | |
When, with the wild horse for my guide, | |
415 | They bound me to his foaming flank: |
At length I play’d them one as frank – | |
For time at last sets all things even — | |
And if we do but watch the hour, | |
There never yet was human power | |
420 | Which could evade, if unforgiven, |
The patient search and vigil long | |
Of him who treasures up a wrong. | |
XI | |
‘Away, away, my steed and I, | |
Upon the pinions of the wind, | |
425 | All human dwellings left behind; |
We sped like meteors through the sky, | |
When with its crackling sound the night | |
Is chequer’d with the northern light: | |
Town – village – none were on our track | |
430 | But a wild plain of far extent, |
And bounded by a forest black; | |
And, save the scarce seen battlement | |
On distant heights of some strong hold, | |
Against the Tartars built of old, | |
435 | No trace of man. The year before |
A Turkish army had march’d o’er; | |
And where the Spahi’s hoof hath trod, | |
The verdure flies the bloody sod: — | |
The sky was dull, and dim, and gray, | |
440 | And a low breeze crept moaning by – |
I could have answer’d with a sigh – | |
But fast we fled, away, away – | |
And I could neither sigh nor pray; | |
And my cold sweat-drops fell like rain | |
445 | 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 slacken’d in his speed; | |
450 | But no — my bound and slender frame |
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 | |
455 | 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: | |
460 | Meantime my cords were wet with gore, |
Which, oozing through my limbs, ran o’er; | |
And in my tongue the thirst became | |
A something fierier far than flame. | |
XII | |
‘We near’d the wild wood – ’twas so wide, | |
465 | I saw no bounds on either side; |
’Twas studded with old sturdy trees, | |
That bent not to the roughest breeze | |
Which howls down from Siberia’s waste, | |
And strips the forest in its haste, – | |
470 | But these were few, and far between |
Set thick with shrubs more young and green, | |
Luxuriant with their annual leaves, | |
Ere strown by those autumnal eves | |
That nip the forest’s foliage dead, | |
475 | Discolour’d with a lifeless red, |
Which stands thereon like stiffen’d gore | |
Upon the slain when battle’s o’er, | |
And some long winter’s night hath shed | |
Its frost o’er every tombless head, | |
480 | So cold and stark the raven’s beak |
May peck unpierced each frozen cheek: | |
’Twas a wild waste of underwood, | |
And here and there a chestnut stood, | |
The strong oak, and the hardy pine; | |
485 | But far apart – and well it were, |
Or else a different lot were mine – | |
The boughs gave way, and did not tear | |
My limbs; and I found strength to bear | |
My wounds, already scarr’d with cold – | |
490 | My bonds forbade to loose my hold. |
We rustled through the leaves like wind, | |
Left shrubs, and trees, and wolves behind; | |
By night I heard them on the track, | |
Their troop came hard upon our back, | |
495 | With their long gallop, which can tire |
The hound’s deep hate, and hunter’s fire: | |
Where’er we flew they follow’d on, | |
Nor left us with the morning sun; | |
Behind I saw them, scarce a rood, | |
500 | At day-break winding through the wood, |
And through the night had heard their feet | |
Their stealing, rustling step repeat. | |
Oh! how I wish’d for spear or sword, | |
At least to die amidst the horde, | |
505 | And perish – if it must be so – |
At bay, destroying many a foe. | |
When first my courser’s race begun, | |
I wish’d the goal already won; | |
But now I doubted strength and speed. | |
510 | Vain doubt! his swift and savage breed |