text:  "Thy steed fears not labour nor danger nor pain His lord's lightest accent he heareth Now still though the arrows fall round him like rain Now o'er the red field he careereth; He fears not the winter he fears not to bleed-- Yet thy death-wound shall come from thy good battle-steed!" Oleg smiled a moment but yet on his brow And lip thought and sorrow were blended: In silence he bent on his saddle and slow The Prince from his courser descended; And as though from a friend he were parting with pain He strokes his broad neck and his dark flowing mane