 | The violet crown by Sir Rennell Rodd |  |
71
Who never missed the mark he aimed, whose blade was keen and true,
Who wore the silver pistols, the shoulder-bits of gold,
The golden braided jacket, and the kilt of treble fold?
He left our high liméri, he drew the lot and went
To tell the rest in Agrapha our powder stores were spent.
He was not gone an hour, an hour by the sun,
When a distant shot rang up the hills, and then another one;
We sprang to foot and listened, held breath and dropped the lyre,
We heard a hundred echoes take up the running fire;
And through the thymy boulders, in cover of the trees,
We slid along the broken ledge, and crawled upon our knees,
Until we saw the vultures come sailing up the blue,
And circle round the rocky gorge, his way went winding through.
72
The first was stark and not quite cold, with a bullet through his heart;
And one had fallen headlong, from out the torrent bed
His rigid eyes stared grimly, and he was not quite dead;
The silent curse was on his lips, and round his matted hair
A purple stain ran down the stones—but Dimos was not there.
The earth was dry, the rocks were bare, and track was none to find,
Did they bear the living with them, and leave their dead behind?
| The violet crown by Sir Rennell Rodd | |