But when the hour of midnight sounds, will come
A noise of galloping hoofs and outriders,
Shouting: six midnight steeds,—their nostrils, pits
Of burning blood,—postilioned, roll a stage,
Black and with groaning wheels of spinning fire:
"Room there!—What, 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 rushes from the clouds
And dives again, high the huge leaders leap,