| |
| THERE ’S blood on the laurel that wreathes his brow, | |
| And the death-cry delights his ear! | |
| The widow is wailing his victory, now, | |
| And his meed is the orphan’s tear! | |
| |
| But the might of his arm shall lose its dread, | 5 |
| For a mightier foe comes near; | |
| The plume must be stripp’d from the conqueror’s head, | |
| To nod o’er the conqueror’s bier! | |
| |
| Alone he must march to the terrible fight, | |
| For there is no army to save! | 10 |
| His glory must set in an endless night, | |
| And his honors shall hide in the grave! | |
| |
| He must measure the darksome valley alone, | |
| Assail’d by remorse and fear; | |
| Nor rod, nor staff help the traveller on, | 15 |
| Nor is there a comforter near. | |
| |
| He sinks! and none shall his requiem sound, | |
| Nor sprinkle his turf with tears; | |
| His head with a clod of the vale is crown’d, | |
| And a shroud is the buckler he wears. | 20 |
| |
| His terrible spirit has spurn’d its clay, | |
| As a rampart, too weak and thin, | |
| And shivering, and naked hath past away | |
| From the house where it dwelt to sin, | |
| |
| But who shall follow the fugitive home | 25 |
| When his last great battle is o’er; | |
| Or, the curtain remove, when it veils the doom | |
| Of the soul on an untried shore! | |
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