The dust, like the smoke from the cannon’s mouth,
Or the trail of a comet sweeping faster and faster;
Foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster:
The heart of the steed and the heart of the master,
Were beating like prisoners assaulting their walls,
Impatient to be where the battle-field calls:
Every nerve of the charger was strained to full play,
With Sheridan only ten miles away!
Under his spurning feet, the road
Like an arrowy Alpine river flowed;