He gasps, the thundering hoofs below; 66 But, live who can, or die who may, Still, 'Forward, forward!" on they go. See, where yon simple fences meet, A field with autumn's blessings crowned; See, prostrate at the Wildgrave's feet, A husbandman with toil embrowned: "O mercy, mercy, noble lord! Spare the poor's pittance," was his cry, "Earned by the sweat these brows have poured In scorching hour of fierce July.” Earnest the right-hand Stranger pleads, The left still cheering to the prey; |