XXXIII

And faded violets, white, and pied, and blue;

      And a light spear topped with a cypress cone,

      Round whose rude shaft dark ivy-tresses grew

      Yet dripping with the forest's noonday dew,

      Vibrated, as the ever-beating heart

      Shook the weak hand that grasped it; of that crew

      He came the last, neglected and apart;

A herd-abandoned deer struck by the hunter's dart.