The Raid

Rain and black night. Beneath the covered bridge The rushing Fork that roars among its rocks. Nothing is out. Nothing? What's that which blocks The long grey road upon the rain-swept ridge? A horseman! No! A mask! As hewn from jet With ready gun he waits and sentinels The open way. Far off he hears wild bells; And now a signal shrills through wind and wet. Was that the thunder, or the rushing stream? The tunnel of the bridge throbs with mad hoofs; Now its black throat pours out a midnight cloud Riders! behind whom steadily a gleam Grows to a glare that silhouettes dark roofs, Whence armed Pursuit gathers and gallops loud.