University of Virginia Library

The toilsome task at last is done,
The battle fought, the victory won;
Far through the land the cheering light
Of peace, with welcome radiance gilds
The lowliest vale, the loftiest height,
The cot, the hall, with rapture fills;
Matron and maid alike rejoice,
Gray-headed seniors and their boys,
The widow's heart forgets its pain—
The lost has not been lost in vain,
And Peace may fill his place again:
The mother, of her sons bereaved,
Though nothing earthly gives relief,
In freedom for their home achieved
Yet finds a balm that soothes her grief.
No lot so low but sees a bliss
In Peace and Hope's fair promises.

And what of those who fought and bled,
With constancy almost divine,
Whose toil and blood for years had fed
The feeble fire on Freedom's shrine;
Of those whose iron nerve had rent
The chain that bound the timid crowd,
Whose hearts by adverse years unbent,
To Fortune's power had never bowed:
The ragged soldier—what of him?
Do open hands their gifts bestow—
Do hearts with generous ardor glow—
Honoring the mutilated limb,
The gaunt, scarred frame? With garlands bound,
Praised, petted, followed, flattered, crowned;
March-worn and labor-wasted now,
Unfit for toil of spade and plough;
Finds he at last some happier lot,
Some nook of ease and bounteous cheer?
His wounds and sufferings are forgot,
His claims excite a smile or sneer,
Disbanded, scattered to the winds,
No place of rest the veteran finds;
A burthen to his country grown,
Compelled to beg or take his bread;
No cur, that gnaws his lonely bone,
More grudgingly was ever fed.
Upon that bright December day,
When crowded transports filled the bay
To bear the conquered hosts away,
The common joy had been complete
If, while the favoring breezes blew,
The bay had borne another fleet
Of transports for the conquerors, too;
Fond wishes, then, for favoring gales
Had filled the soldier's parting sails;
Warm hopes had moved the people's heart
That Fortune, with auspicious hand,
Would lead to some far richer land
The veteran, and would there impart
Her amplest, fairest gifts, that they
The burthen might no longer bear;
Now hateful grown, of food or pay,
For war, a foe no longer near;
The debt of gratitude too great,
They left the soldier to his fate.

Yet, though the many spurned his claim,
And scorned the warrior's honest fame,
All generous hearts—a noble few,
Amid the base more purely bright,
As beacon lights that, ever true,
Shine clearest in the darkest night—
All generous hearts, with grief, deplore
The war-worn soldier's scanty store,
The country's promise falsely spoken,
The contract made and meanly broken;
The garb of rags, the dole of food,
The country's base ingratitude;
And gentler hearts with pity glow,
And favors fairer hands bestow,
And love's sweet sympathies impart
Their treasure to the veteran's heart;
His toils reward, his fortunes cheer—
Who more than he deserves the fair?

For him, the bravest of the brave,
Who, in his country's darkest hour,
Still bade her dauntless banner wave,
And spurn the stern invader's power;
For him one gentle bosom warmed,
One eager ear, intent to hear,
Insatiate sought the tale that charmed
Her heart with Marion's great career:
She loved the high heroic name,
The courage, ever prompt to dare,
The Patriot Chief's unspotted fame,
The gentle spirit, prone to spare,
That through long years of civil strife
With wrong and rancorous passions rife
Had passed without reproach or fear;
And now could challenge friend or foe,
In all that brave and bright career,
One blot or stain or shade to show,
Conscious no tongue of truth could speak
A charge to flush his manly cheek.

Her warm devotion, many a day,
Had smoothed and cheered the warrior's way,
The wanted aid had ever lent
The secret message often sent,
To warn him of the cunning wile,
The Briton's wrath, the Tory's guile;
And, now, his suit the warrior pays,
Nor pays in vain—she loved to praise
The chief and matchless partisan;
And from the chief to love the man
Is but an easy step, 'tis said,
Though silver threads, not singly now,
About the wooer's temple spread,
And broader showed his noble brow;
But still, in minstrel's tale, 'tis sung,
That heartfelt love is ever young,
Nor ceases with his purest light,
With tenderness as warm as true,
In winter climes to shine as bright
As spring or summer ever knew.