On a perilous path, at a breakneck pace,
In a mingled spirit of hate and fear,
Too hot to heed, and too deaf to hear;
With a fierce red eye on each other cast,
And a rate of going that _cannot_ last,
On a road that leads, as such roads lead all,
To a crumbling cliff, and a crashing fall.

"The Road to Ruin? Pooh! preacher trite!
'Tis a gallant race, and in glorious flight,
With the clinkety-clank of scabbard and spur,
O'er moor and meadow, by linden and fir,
With the wind of speed blowing brisk in one's face,
A Long-Distance Ride is a soul-stirring race!"

Verily yes,--for the riders gay,
Saddled softly, in armed array,
Hand on the bridle, heel at the flank,
And that martial music, clinkety-clank!
Charming the ear in galloping time
With the hoofs' hard rattle in clattering chime.
Clumpety-clump! Clankety-clink!
Out on the caitiff who'd pause or shrink!
Clinkety-clank! Clumpety-clump!
The stout steed's heart at his ribs may thump,
In spasms the breath through his nostrils pump,
The strained neck droop, though 'tis held at stretch,
The labouring lungs in sheer agony fetch
Blood-mixed breathings, red-dappled foam,--
Let the lash descend, let the spur strike home!