Читать книгу The Continental Monthly, Vol. 2, No. 1, July, 1862 - Various - Страница 11

Victory comes with a palm in her hand,

    With laurel upon her brow;

Cypress is clinging about her feet,

But its dark blossoms are red and sweet,

    And the weeping mourners bow.

It is well. Through her tears, the widow smiles

    To the child upon her knee;

'Thou'rt fatherless, darling; but he fell

Gallantly fighting, and long and well,

    For the banner of the free!'

Then, weeping: 'Alas! for my lost, lost love;

    Alas! for my own weak heart;

I know, when the storm shall pass away,

My boy, in manhood, would blush to say:

    'My blood had therein no part."

The maiden her lover weeps, unconsoled,

    So desolate is her gloom;

But a voice falls softly through the air,

Whispering comfort to her despair,

    'Love here hath fadeless bloom.'

The father laments for his boy, who fell

    By Cumberland's river-side;

The sister, her brother loved the best,

Whose blood, in the dark and troubled West,

    The father of waters dyed.

The mother—oh! silence your Spartan tales—

    Says bravely, hushing a moan:

'I have yet one left. My boy! go on;

Rear freedom's banner high in the sun!'

    Then sits in the house alone.

To die for one's country is sweet, indeed!

    To fight for the right is brave;

But there are brave hearts who vainly wait

Till triumph shall find them desolate,

    Their hopes in a far-off grave.

O mourners! be patient; the end shall come;

    The beautiful years of peace.

Remember! though hearts rebel the while

You hide your tears with a mournful smile,

    That tyranny soon shall cease.

For victory comes, a palm in her hand,

    Fresh garlands about her brow;

But the cypress trailing under her feet,

With crimson blossoms, by tears made sweet,

    Shall wreathe with the laurel now.