Your soul is forfeit to those agencies,
Right rathe who are to rend it from the flesh.
And while that hour of midnight sounds a din
Of hurrying hoofs and shouting outriders—
Six snorting steeds postilioned roll a stage
Black and with groaning wheels of spinning fire,
"Room there!—ho! ho!—who bars the mountain-way!
On over him!"—but fear not nor fare forth,—
'Tis but the last trick of your bounden slave:
And ere the red moon strives from dingy clouds