XVII.

"Uprose 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-- 660 The very air was mute: And not an insect's shrill small horn,[269] 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. 670 Is it the wind those branches stirs?[270] 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 stretched by pain, 680 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 re-nerved my courser's feet, A moment staggering, feebly fleet, A moment, with a faint low neigh, 690 He answered, and then fell! With gasps and glazing eyes he lay, And reeking limbs immoveable, 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, 700 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, 710 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! I little deemed another day Would see my houseless, helpless head.

"And there from morn to twilight bound, I felt the heavy hours toil round, With just enough of life to see 720 My last of suns go down on me, In hopeless certainty of, mind, That makes us feel at length resigned To that which our foreboding years Present the worst and last of fears: Inevitable--even a boon, Nor more unkind for coming soon, Yet shunned and dreaded with such care, As if it only were a snare That Prudence might escape: 730 At times both wished for and implored, At times sought with self-pointed sword, Yet still a dark and hideous close To even intolerable woes, And welcome in no shape. And, strange to say, the sons of pleasure, They who have revelled beyond measure In beauty, wassail, wine, and treasure, Die calm, or calmer, oft than he Whose heritage was Misery. 740 For he who hath in turn run through All that was beautiful and new, Hath nought to hope, and nought to leave; And, save the future, (which is viewed Not quite as men are base or good, But as their nerves may be endued,) With nought perhaps to grieve: The wretch still hopes his woes must end, And Death, whom he should deem his friend, Appears, to his distempered eyes, 750 Arrived to rob him of his prize, The tree of his new Paradise. To-morrow would have given him all, Repaid his pangs, repaired his fall; To-morrow would have been the first Of days no more deplored or curst, But bright, and long, and beckoning years, Seen dazzling through the mist of tears, Guerdon of many a painful hour; To-morrow would have given him power 760 To rule--to shine--to smite--to save-- And must it dawn upon his grave?