Stretching dimly afar,
Between slopes that are rugged and bare,
Half obscure under moonbeam and star,
Half revealed in the soft, misty air,
Runs a rude, broken way that will lead
Gallant rider and sure‐footed steed
Westward forth to the camp of Bugeaud,
Forty miles over high land and low;
But the steed must be trusty and fleet,
And the bridle hand steady and keen
That shall guide him by rock and ravine,
Where each stride of the galloping feet
Must span dangers that slumber unseen;
And beyond, scarce a league to the west,
Yawns a treacherous chasm, dark and deep,
Where death lurks like a serpent asleep,
And the rider must ride at his best,
And his steed take the terrible leap
Like a winged creature cleaving the air,
Else a grim, ghastly corpse shall be there,
With perchance a steed stark on its breast,
And the moon shall look down with a stare
Where they lie in perpetual rest.