XXXIII


       His head was bound with pansies overblown,
       And faded violets, white, and pied, and blue;
       And a light spear topp’d 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 grasp’d it; of that crew
       He came the last, neglected and apart;
A herd-abandon’d deer struck by the hunter’s dart.

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