Page:The Poetical Works of William Motherwell, 1849.djvu/140



And his black steed, I trow,. As it galloped on, With a hot sulphur halo, And flame-flash all shone.

From eye and from nostril, Out gushed the pale flame, And from its chafed mouth, the Churned fire-froth came.

They are two! they are two!— They are coal-black as night, That now staunchly follow That grim Baron's flight.

In each lull of the wild blast, Out breaks their deep yell: 'Tis the slot of the Doomed One These hounds track so well.

Ho! downward, still downward, Sheer slopeth his way; No let hath his progress, No gate bids him stay.