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16 They ran as a startled flock runs; But still we pursued o'er the plain, Till the rising moon counted the slain, And some hundred Egyptians lay dead.

Oh!'twas a glorious ride, And I rode on the crest of the tide. We dashed them aside like the mud of the street, We threshed them away like the chaff from the wheat, We trod out their victory under our feet, And charged them again and again; For demons were loose on the hot-breathing wind, And entered the souls of our men. A feverish delight filled our bones, Heightened by curses and groans— The mind taking hold of the body, the body reacting on mind.

Ha!'twas a glorious ride, Though I miss an old friend from my side,