THE THREE FRIENDS 



FROM THE FRENCH 



The sword slew one in deadly strife ; 



One perished by the bowl ; 

 The third lies self-slain by the knife ; 



For three the bells may toll — 

 I loved her better than my life, 



And better than my soul. 



Aye, father ! hast thou come at last ? 



'Tis somewhat late to pray ; 

 Life's crimson tides are ebbing fast, 



They drain my soul away ; 

 Mine eyes with film are overcast, 



The lights are waning grey. 



This curl from her bright head I shore, 

 And this her hands gave mine ; 



See, one is stained with purple gore, 

 And one with poison'd wine ; 



Give these to her when all is o'er 

 — How serpent-like they twine ! 



We three were brethren in arms. 



And sworn companions we ; 



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