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Title: Victory
Author: Lydia H. Sigourney [
More Titles by Sigourney]
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 gor'd,
They point me to the blood-stained 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:
Where the lone maid in secret sighs
O'er the lost solace of her heart,
As prostrate in despair she lies,
And feels her tortur'd life depart:
Where midst that desolated land,
The sire, lamenting o'er his son,
Extends his pale and powerless hand,
And finds its only prop is gone.
See, how the bands of war and woe
Have rifled sweet domestic bliss;
And tell me if your laurels grow
And flourish in a soil like this?
[The end]
Lydia H. Sigourney's poem: Victory
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