 | The Creed of My Heart and Other Poems |  |
67
A TRUE TALE OF THE FAR WEST
I
The rifles glittered in the sun,All pointed at one human breast;
Eight rifles—but they rose like one,—
So well the line of death was dressed.
II
Who dressed it? Who on that dread dayWas captain of that stern-faced squad?
Who marshalled it in grim array
To wreak on man the wrath of God?
III
Who—but its victim? Proud he stood,Proud and erect before them all,—
A thief, a murderer, wild and rude,
Doomed by their vengeful hands to fall.
IV
Plunder and murder—such his crime,A crime which death alone could purge:
Swift was his judgment; short the time
Allowed him on life's dizzy verge.
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V
He laughed at death,—but death's disgrace!To die the felon's death of shame!
A sudden horror flushed his face,
And swept through all his veins like flame.
VI
His aged mother far away:—The gibbet! No! For her dear sake
Prone on the earth he'd kneel and pray:
Were that his doom, her heart would break.
VII
Prone, humbled, at his captors' feetHe knelt, he prayed with eager breath—
Chide not his whim—that he might meet
A soldier's, not a felon's death.
VIII
His boon was granted. Up he sprangInspired, impassioned. Pride and joy
Glowed in his face. He danced and sang,
Lighthearted as a careless boy.
IX
Then facing death he took his stand.The rifles rose. ‘Too low!’ ‘Too high!’
He called impatient, as he scanned
The muzzles with a critic's eye.
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X
‘Look, boys!’ he cried, ‘my heart is here,’And on his heart his hand he laid—
His beating heart that knew no fear—
Too full of joy to feel afraid.
XI
‘Here is your mark; take careful aim;There! Steady! So!’ He bared his head.
Forth leaped a sheet of living flame;
And every bullet struck him dead.
| The Creed of My Heart and Other Poems | |