Wind round on the terrible wall,
Where the faint, moving speck of the rider
Seems hovering close to its fall! 16
Stout Pablo of San Diego
Rode down from the hills behind;
With the bells on his gray mule tinkling,
He sang through the fog and wind.
Under his thick, misted eyebrows
Twinkled his eye like a star,
And fiercer he sang as the sea-winds