A steed, black as the steeds of night,
Was seen to pass as with eagle flight.
As if he knew the terrible need,
He stretched away with his utmost speed:
Hill rose and fell; but his heart was gay,
With Sheridan fifteen miles away.
“Still sprung from those swift hoofs, thundering south,
The dust, like the smoke from the cannon’s mouth,
Or the trail of a comet, sweeping faster and faster,
Foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster.