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And urged his utmost speed with spur and rein. He is past...out of sight....

The muffled drum is rolling, and the low Notes of the death-march float upon the wind, And stately steps are pacing round that square With slow and measured tread; but every brow Is darkened with emotion, and stern eyes, That looked unshrinking on the face of death, When met in battle, are now moist with tears. The silent ring is formed, and in the midst Stands the Deserter! Can this be the same, The young, the gallant ? and are these The laurels promised in his early dreams? Those fettered hands, this doom of open shame!