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 With Charlie, who speedily sprang to the earth To ease the mare’s burden: his deft-fingered hand Unslackened her surcingle, loosened tight girth, And cleansed with a tussock the spurs’ ruddy brand.

There he lay by the rock—drooping head, glazing eye, Strong limbs stilled for ever. No more would he fear The thud of a horseman; no more would he fly Through the hills with his harem in rapid career. The pick of the mountain mob, bays, greys, or roans, He proved in his death that the pace ‘tis that kills; And a sun-shrunken hide o’er a few whitened bones Marks the last resting-place of the Lord of the Hills.