OMESH CHUNDER DUTT.
1836-1912.
The Chief of Pokurna.
Within the merry greenwood,
At dawning of the day,
Four-and-twenty armed men
In silent ambush lay.
They wait like couchant leopards,
Their eager eyes they strain,
And look towards the lonely glade,
Towards the distant plain.
Naught see they but the golden corn
Slow waving in the sun,
Naught see they but the misty hills
And uplands bare and dun.
The rustle of the forest leaves,
The trampling of the deer,
The chirp of birds upon the boughs,
Are all the sounds they hear.
But hark! they catch the thrilling notes
Of a distant bugle horn
Come pealing through the wild ravine,
By the morning breezes borne:
Lower they stooped, and anxiously
Their laboured breath they drew,
And clutched their brands with nervous hands—
Their quarry is in view,
Attended by a single squire,
Slow riding up the glen,
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