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the warrior.
Is this the glory battle yields? Take, take the wreath away
Which mocks his icy brow; and, oh! re-animate that clay.
Back, menials back, I am not mad! are these like frenzy's throes?
Mine is the darkness of the dead; but ah! not that repose.
Ambition's dream is all dissolved, and my awakened glance
Beholds the blood-red field of war divested of romance.
I've taken from his cold, dead grasp, the gore-beclotted blade
By which, perchance, some mother's hope, like mine, was lowly laid;
And vict'ry's ours—the very air with sounds of triumph's fraught,
But riven hearts like mine can tell how dearly it was bought."
Which mocks his icy brow; and, oh! re-animate that clay.
Back, menials back, I am not mad! are these like frenzy's throes?
Mine is the darkness of the dead; but ah! not that repose.
Ambition's dream is all dissolved, and my awakened glance
Beholds the blood-red field of war divested of romance.
I've taken from his cold, dead grasp, the gore-beclotted blade
By which, perchance, some mother's hope, like mine, was lowly laid;
And vict'ry's ours—the very air with sounds of triumph's fraught,
But riven hearts like mine can tell how dearly it was bought."
