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The Poisoned Arrow
DSS (1866-1918 / Ireland)

The Poisoned Arrow

All wounded sore he lay upon my path,
His piteous moans his woeful need confessed;
I stooped to find his hurt with searching hand—
A poisoned arrow pierced his panting breast.
He had a friend who dwelt beside the way,
And, running swift, I called to him for aid
'Your comrade lies all wounded to his death;
Some secret foe a havoc here has made.'
Deaf to my call, I saw him crouch and creep,
Screened in a laurel's shade, the leaves among
He moved to pry and peer and pry again—
Within his hand he held a bow unstrung.

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