LII.

The mustang flinch'd till his saddle girth Scrap'd on the dust of the tremblin' ground-- There cum a laugh--the crack of a whip, A whine like the cry of a well pleas'd hound, The noise of a hoss thet rear'd an' sprang At the touch of a spur--then all was still; But the sound of the thunder dyin' down On the stony breast of the highest hill!