The true mettle beneath, for the slip of a hoof
Or a swerve on the brink will dash both into doom,
Where the sad stars shall watch o'er a cavernous tomb.
Girth and bridle and stirrup are felt, to be sure
That no flaw shall bring peril—and all is secure;
Then with eyes fixed before, and brow bent to the wind,
And one thought of the foe and his comrades behind,
And a low, earnest prayer that all heaven must heed,
He slacks bridle, plies spur, and gives head to his steed.
With a bound it responds, ears set back, nostrils wide,