She clung wild and she clung mute,—with her shuddering lips half-shut,— Toll slowly. Her head fallen as half in swound,—hair and knee swept on the ground,— She clung wild to stirrup and foot.
Back he reined his steed back-thrown on the slippery coping-stone,— Toll slowly. Back the iron hoofs did grind on the battlement behind, Whence a hundred feet went down.
And his heel did press and goad on the quivering flank bestrode, Toll slowly. "Friends, and brothers! save my wife!—Pardon, sweet, in change for life,— But I ride alone to God."
Straight as if the Holy name had upbreathed her like a flame,— Toll slowly. She upsprang, she rose upright,—in his selle she sate in sight, By her love she overcame.
And her head was on his breast, where she smiled as one at rest,— Toll slowly. "Ring," she cried, "O vesper-bell, in the beechwood's old chapelle! But the passing-bell rings best."
They have caught out at the rein, which Sir Guy threw loose—in vain,— Toll slowly. For the horse in stark despair, with his front hoofs poised in air, On the last verge rears amain.
Now he hangs, the rocks between—and his nostrils curdle in,— Toll slowly. Now he shivers head and hoof—and the flakes of foam fall off; And his face grows fierce and thin!
And a look of human woe from his staring eyes did go,— Toll slowly. And a sharp cry uttered he, in a foretold agony Of the headlong death below,——
And, "Ring, ring, thou passing-bell," still she cried, "i' the old chapelle!"— Toll slowly. Then back-toppling, crashing back,—a dead weight flung out to wrack, Horse and riders overfell.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning.