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He gasps, the thundering hoofs below;

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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;

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