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 stretch’d by pain,
Mouths bloodless to the bit or rein,
And feet that iron never shod,
And flanks unscarr’d 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;