Why, flame could hardly be more hot;
Yet on the mad pursuer came,
Across the gleaming yielding ground,
Right on, as if he fed on flame,
Right on until the mid-day found
The man within a pistol-shot.
He hail'd, but Morgan answer'd not,
He hail'd, then came a feeble shot,
And strangely, in that vastness there,
It seem'd to scarcely fret the air,
But fell down harmless anywhere.
He fiercely hail'd; and then there fell
A horse. And then a man fell down,
And in the sea-sand seem'd to drown.
Then Vasques cursed, but scarce could tell
The sound of his own voice, and all
In mad confusion seem'd to fall.
Yet on push'd Morgan, silent on,
And as he rode he lean'd and drew,
From his catenas, gold, and threw
The bright coins in the glaring sun.
But Vasques did not heed a whit,
He scarcely deign'd to scowl at it.
Again lean'd Morgan! He uprose,
And held a high hand to his foes,
And held two goblets up, and one
Did shine as if itself a sun.
Then leaning backward from his place,
He hurl'd them in his foemen's face,
Then drew again, and so kept on,
Till goblets, gold, and all were gone.
Yea, strew'd them out upon the sands
As men upon a frosty morn,
In Mississippi's fertile lands,
Hurl out great, yellow ears of corn
To hungry swine with hurried hands.