"We near'd the wild wood--'twas so wide, I saw no bounds on either side; 465 '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,-- But these were few and far between, 470 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, Discolour'd with a lifeless red, 475 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, So cold and stark the raven's beak 480 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; But far apart--and well it were, 485 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-- My bonds forbade to loose my hold. 490 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, With their long gallop which can tire 495 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, At daybreak winding through the wood, 500 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, And perish--if it must be so-- 505 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. Vain doubt! his swift and savage breed 510 Had nerved him like the mountain-roe; Nor faster falls the blinding snow Which whelms the peasant near the door Whose threshold he shall cross no more, Bewilder'd with the dazzling blast, 515 Than through the forest-paths he past-- Untired, untamed, and worse than wild; All furious as a favour'd child Balk'd of its wish; or fiercer still-- A woman piqued--who has her will. 520 XIII