XCII.
They have caught out at the rein which Sir Guy threw loose—in vain—
Toll slowly.
For the horse in stark despair, with his front hoofs poised in air,
On the last verge rears amain.
XCIII.
Now he hangs, he rocks between, and his nostrils curdle in—
Toll slowly.
Now he shivers head and hoof and the flakes of foam fall off,
And his face grows fierce and thin:
XCIV.
And a look of human woe from his staring eyes did go:
Toll slowly.
And a sharp cry uttered he, in a foretold agony
Of the headlong death below,—
XCV.
And, "Ring, ring, thou passing-bell," still she cried, "i' the old chapelle!"
Toll slowly.
Then, back-toppling, crashing back—a dead weight flung out to wrack,
Horse and riders overfell.
Oh, the little birds sang east, and the little birds sang west—
Toll slowly.
And I read this ancient Rhyme, in the churchyard, while the chime
Slowly tolled for one at rest.