Page:The Golden Violet.pdf/52

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But thicker closed the heavy boughs, And even these were gone. Yet still I heard the ringing steps Of soldiers clad in mail, And heard the stirring trumpet send Defiance on the gale. Then rose those deadlier sounds that tell When foes meet hand to hand,— The shout, the yell, the iron clang Of meeting spear and brand. I have stood when my own life-blood Pour'd down like winter rain; But rather would I shed its last Than live that day again. Squire, page, and leech my feverish haste To seek me tidings sent;