As by the rançhe we swept apace,
And faced the hill, and past the pond,
And gallop'd up the height beyond,
Nor tighten'd rein till field and farm
Were hidden by the mountain's arm
A mile behind; when, hot and spent,
The horses paused on the ascent,
And mopping from his brow the sweat.
The boy glanced round with teeth still set,
And panting, with his eyes on me,