Dreams and days | ||
VII
Dead leaves and stricken boughsShe heaped o'er the fallen form—
Wolf nor hawk nor lawless storm
Him from his rest should rouse;
But first, with solemn vows,
Took rifle, pouch, and horn,
And the belt that he had worn.
Then, onward pressing fast
Through the forest rude and vast,
Hunger-wasted, fever-parch'd,
Many bitter days she marched
54
One thought always throbbing through her brain:
“They shall never say, ‘He was afraid,’—
They shall never cry, ‘The coward stayed!’”
Dreams and days | ||