“When stands it?” “To-night.” “Not a moment to spare,
But ride like the wind from the Delaware.”
“Ho, saddle the black! I’ve but half a day,
And the Congress sits eighty miles away—
But I’ll be in time, if God grants me grace,
To shake my fist in King George’s face.”
He is up; he is off! and the black horse flies
On the northward road ere the “God-speed” dies,
It is gallop and spur, as the leagues they clear,
And the clustering mile-stones move a-rear.