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THE BRIAR-ROSE
Day dies; Truth dies! But who is this?
O warrior, O latecoming Knight,
Welcome! . . . Ah, will he win or miss?
Calm are those eyes that burn so bright,
Helm’d are those brows with stedfastness,
Take heed, ye Briars,
Ye flaunting Briars!
See! see! what tho’ his hand is torn,
His lifted face with bloodstains wet,
What tho’ the thirsty spikes of thorn
Weave him a ghastly carcanet—
Steadily are his footsteps set
Amid the Briars,
And thro’ the Briars. . . .
O glorious Knight, securely brave!
Gain’d is the great oak door at last! . . .
Now anew he buffets the biting wave. . . .
The porch is pass’d, and the courtyard pass’d.
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