Poems (Truesdell)/The Triumphs of War

by Helen Truesdell

THE TRIUMPHS OF WAR.

"No blood-stained victory, in story bright.
Can give the philosophic mind delight—
No triumph please; while rage and death destroy,
Reflection sickens at the monstrous joy."—Bloomfield.

Proud was the chariot that bore the bold warrior
 Swift were the steeds that sped him along;
Wild were the strains of deep martial music
 That broke from their ranks in the soul of their song.

Bound was the brow of the victor with glory;
 Bright, as the laurels the proud Roman wore,
Glittered his helmet,—beneath the broad sunlight
 Floated his banner in triumph before.

Forth from each village, and city, and hamlet,
 Came the glad people their Chieftain to greet,
Beautiful maidens with flowers they had gathered—
 Gathered to strew at the conqueror's feet.

"Long live our Chieftain! the boldest the bravest!—
 "Long live our Champion!" re-echoed afar;
Proud grew his breast in that moment of triumph,
 But dark was his hand with the crimson of war.

Wide flew the gateways that led to the palace:
 Banners were floating from turret and dome;
Fair ladies joyously waved him a welcome,—
 Welcome once more to his beautiful home.

Bright flowed the wine that night at the banquet;
 Pages presented it, bending the knee:
Young maidens danced to the gayest of measures,
 Shouting aloud, "We are free! we are free!"