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.