190
THE DESERTER.
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 Edward? and are these
The laurels promised in his early dreams?
Those fettered hands, this doom of open shame!
