170
THE GOLDEN VIOLET.
The old man watch'd impatiently, till with morn o'er the plain
There came a sound of horses' feet, there came a martial train.
But gleam'd not back the sunbeam glad from plume or helm of gold,
No, it shone upon the crimson vest, the turban's emerald fold.
A Moorish herald; six pale heads hung at his saddle-bow,
Gash'd, changed, yet well the father knew the lines of each fair brow.
"Oh! did they fall by numbers, or did they basely yield?"
"Not so; beneath the same bold hand thy children press'd the field.
