By Hannah Flagg Gould
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,
For a mightier foe comes near!
The plume will be stripped from the conqueror’s head
To wave o’er the conqueror’s bier!
Alone he must march to the terrible fight,
For there is no army to save!
His glory will set in an endless night,
And his honors be hid in the grave.
He must tread the darksome valley alone,
Assailed by remorse and fear;
Nor rod, nor staff help the traveller on;
Nor is there a comforter near.
He sinks! and none shall his requiem sound,
Or sprinkle his turf with tears;
His head with the clods of the vale is crowned,
And a shroud is the buckler he wears!
But who shall follow the fugitive home
When his last great battle is o’er;
Or sever the curtain that veils the doom
Of a soul on an untried shore?