Page:Literary Souvenir 1826.pdf/10

I saw a youthful warrior stand
    In his first light of fame,—
His native city filled the air
    With her deliverer's name.

I saw him hurry from the crowd,
    And fling his laurel crown,
In weariness, in hopelessness,
    In utter misery, down.

And what the sorrow, then I asked,
    Can thus the warrior move
To scorn his meed of victory?
    They told me it was Love.

I sought the forum, there was one
    With dark and haughty brow,—
His voice was as the trumpet's tone,
    Mine ear rings with it now.

They quailed before his flashing eye,—
    They watched his lightest word,—
When suddenly that eye was dim,
    That voice no longer heard.

I looked upon his lonely hour,
    The weary solitude;
When over dark and bitter thoughts
    The sick heart's left to brood.