"We near'd the wild wood--'t was so wide, I saw no bounds on either side; 'T was 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, 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, 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 May peck unpierced each frozen cheek: 'T was 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, 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. 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 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 day-break winding through the wood, And through the night had heard their feet Their stealing, rustling step repeat. * * * * *