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VICTORY.
WAFT not to me the blast of fame,
That swells the trump of victory,
For to my ear it gives the name
Of slaughter, and of misery.
Boast not so much of honour's sword,
Wave not so high the victor's plume;
They point me to the bosom goar'd,
They point me to the blood-stain'd tomb.
The boastful shout, the revel loud,
That strive to drown the voice of pain,
What are they but the fickle crowd
Rejoicing o'er their brethren slain?
And ah, through glory's fading blaze,
I see the cottage taper, pale,
Which sheds its faint and feeble rays,
Where unprotected orphans wail:
Where the sad widow weeping stands,
As if her day of hope was done:
Where the wild mother clasps her hands,
And asks the victor for her son:
