Night after the Battle.
Why does thy forehead hide its woe under a weight of gems,
While every hour treads down the worth of a thousand diadems?
Where are the sacred, beautiful words—sister, mother, and wife?
And the prayer of faith, valor's white shield, that strengthens the arm in strife?
Seek for the words where a painted cheek blossoms out in the bowers,
Where the atmosphere of a putrid mirth withers all purer flowers;
Seek for the prayer where a mimic phrase copies a sentiment,
And goes up from a lip mechanically moved to an ear unheeding bent.
While every hour treads down the worth of a thousand diadems?
Where are the sacred, beautiful words—sister, mother, and wife?
And the prayer of faith, valor's white shield, that strengthens the arm in strife?
Seek for the words where a painted cheek blossoms out in the bowers,
Where the atmosphere of a putrid mirth withers all purer flowers;
Seek for the prayer where a mimic phrase copies a sentiment,
And goes up from a lip mechanically moved to an ear unheeding bent.
Columbia, weep for the heartlessness, the selfishness, the pride,
That bridges thy billowy wave of life, and scatters its surges wide!
Thy triumph waits on the farther shore; but, oh! till thy conquest comes,
Mix not the tremble of ivory keys with the passion- ate throb of drums!
That bridges thy billowy wave of life, and scatters its surges wide!
Thy triumph waits on the farther shore; but, oh! till thy conquest comes,
Mix not the tremble of ivory keys with the passion- ate throb of drums!
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