Exert each nerve, each sinew strain;
And all in vain that motley-crew
Of horsemen still the chase pursue.
Two by two, and one by one,
They lag behind—’tis nearly done,
That desperate game, that eager strife,
That fearful race for death or life.
Those dark trees gained that skirt the moor,
All danger of pursuit is o’er;
Screened by their shade from every eye,