‘A thousand horse—and none to ride!

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?

With flowing tail and flying mane,

Wide nostrils—never stretched by pain,

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.’

-From Byron’s “Mazeppa.”

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