The Despatch of the Doom
(“Pendant que dans l’auberge.”)
{Bk. IV. xiii., Jersey, November, 1852.}
While in the jolly tavern, the bandits gayly drink, Upon the haunted highway, sharp hoof-beats loudly clink? Yea; past scant-buried victims, hard-spurring sturdy steed, A mute and grisly rider is trampling grass and weed, And by the black-sealed warrant which in his grasp shines clear, I known it is the Future—God’s Justicer is here!