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Metaphor / Personification
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A ballad-maker's pack
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They
gloried
in
their
brown-robed
priest;
and
often,
dark
in
thought,
The
warriors
grouped,
a
silent
ring,
to
hear
the
word
he
brought,
While
round
the
kindly
man-at-arms
their
lithe-
limbed
children
played
And
shot
their
arrows
at
his
shield
and
rode
his
guarded
blade.
When
thrice
the
silver
crescent
had
filled
its
curving
shell
The
friar
rose
at
dawning
and
bade
his
flock
farewell
:
And
if
your
brothers
northward
be
cruel,
even
so,
My
Master
bids
me
teach
them;
and
dare
I
answer/
No
? & quot;
But
where
he
trod
in
quenchless
zeal
the
path
of
thorns
once
more,
A
savage
cohort
swept
the
plain
in
paint
and
plume
of
war.
>>