Proud heroes of the tented field,
Kings of a vaunted line,
May wish their blood-bought fame to yield
For honors won like thine.
PEACE.
History hath set her crown
Upon the Conqueror's head,
And bade the awe-struck world bow down
Before his banner'd tread.
So down the world hath bow'd
Upon her letter'd page,
And the wild homage of the crowd
Swell'd on from age to age.
What miseries mark'd his way,
How oft the orphan wept,
How deep the earth in sackcloth lay
No trace her annal kept.
Though like a torrent's flow
The widow's tear gush'd out,
The current of that secret woe
Quell'd not the victor's shout.
The Gospel's sacred scroll
A different standard shows,
Its plaudit on the humble soul
And contrite, it bestows.
