DIXON, a Choctaw, twenty years of age, Had killed a miner in a Leadville brawl; Tried and condemned, the rough-beards curb their rage, And watch him stride in freedom from the hall. "Return on Friday, to be shot to death!" So ran the sentence, -- it was Monday night. The dead man's comrades drew a well-pleased breath; Then all night long the gambling-dens were bright. The days sped slowly; but the Friday came, And flocked the miners to the shooting-ground; They chose six riflemen of deadly aim, And with low voices sat and lounged around. "He will not come." "He's not a fool." "The men Who set the savage free must face the blame." A Choctaw brave smiled bitterly, and then Smiled proudly, with raised head, as Dixon came. Silent and stern, a woman at his heels, He motions to the brave, who stays her tread. Next minute flame the guns, -- the woman reels And drops without a moan: Dixon is dead. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A VALEDICTION: OF WEEPING by JOHN DONNE THE ROARING FROST by ALICE MEYNELL THE LOVE OF GOD by ELIZA SCUDDER TO A GIPSY CHILD BY THE SEA-SHORE by MATTHEW ARNOLD THE HOUSE-WARMING; A LEGEND OF BLEEDING-HEART YARD by RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM |