THE BATTLE IS FOUGHT.
I
The battle is fought, and the weapons are sheath'd,
The brows of the victors with laurels are wreath'd;
Each sword glitters bright, and the blood stains are gone,
The triumph of war is remember'd alone.
But some may shrink back from this splendid array,
Some mourners in tears may turn sadly away.
They heed not the pomp of the trophy or wreath,
Whose hearts lov'd the lost one who slumbers beneath.
II
Behold yon fair maid, with a glance of despair
Seeks one who she knows too well cannot be there!
Till all are gone past, like a statue she stands,
Then silently covers her face with her hands.
Too hopeless to weep, and too feeble to stir,
Each fold of yon banner seems bloody to her.
That wreath on his tomb will hang withering now
She once hop'd in triumph to twine round his brow.
