POEMS.
83
Freighted with Conquest, the Fleet is in sight!—
Why joins Despair her complaints with our praises?
Oh! 'tis a Mother, in frenzy who raises
Shrieks for her Only-one slain in the fight!
She [to our shoutings when cannons replying
Tell from each fort, that the battle is won]
Hears in the roar but her Boy's murmur dying,
⟨Sees⟩ in the flash but the fate of her Son.
Why joins Despair her complaints with our praises?
Oh! 'tis a Mother, in frenzy who raises
Shrieks for her Only-one slain in the fight!
She [to our shoutings when cannons replying
Tell from each fort, that the battle is won]
Hears in the roar but her Boy's murmur dying,
⟨Sees⟩ in the flash but the fate of her Son.
Closed is the contest, and Peace again smiles—
Why by that Beauty is sorrow still cherished?
Oh! 'tis a Widow, whose Soldier-love perished,
Struck by that plague, which lays waste the West Isles.
Lost all she valued, War shows her no danger,
Peace for her broken heart nothing can save:
She, whose torn bosom to Hope is a stranger,
Knows of no Peace—but the Peace of the Grave!
Why by that Beauty is sorrow still cherished?
Oh! 'tis a Widow, whose Soldier-love perished,
Struck by that plague, which lays waste the West Isles.
Lost all she valued, War shows her no danger,
Peace for her broken heart nothing can save:
She, whose torn bosom to Hope is a stranger,
Knows of no Peace—but the Peace of the Grave!
