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82
WAR, VICTORY, AND PEACE.
War blew his trumpet, and Man cried—“Destroy!”—
Soon yonder hills heard the cannon's loud rattle:
Morn saw the Warriors rush on to the battle,
Gallant and gay, full of life, full of joy.
Vanquish'd and Victors, with blood their arms blushing,
Pant on the plain, now the night-dew descends:
Fast from their wounds, Lo! the life-stream is gushing;
Faster gush tears from the eyes of their Friends.—
Soon yonder hills heard the cannon's loud rattle:
Morn saw the Warriors rush on to the battle,
Gallant and gay, full of life, full of joy.
Vanquish'd and Victors, with blood their arms blushing,
Pant on the plain, now the night-dew descends:
Fast from their wounds, Lo! the life-stream is gushing;
Faster gush tears from the eyes of their Friends.—
83
Freighted with Conquest, the Fleet is in sight!—
Why joins Despair her complaints with our praises?
Oh! 'tis a Mother, in frenzy who raises
Shrieks for her Only-one slain in the fight!
She [to our shoutings when cannons replying
Tell from each fort, that the battle is won]
Hears in the roar but her Boy's murmur dying,
Sees in the flash but the fate of her Son.
Why joins Despair her complaints with our praises?
Oh! 'tis a Mother, in frenzy who raises
Shrieks for her Only-one slain in the fight!
She [to our shoutings when cannons replying
Tell from each fort, that the battle is won]
Hears in the roar but her Boy's murmur dying,
Sees in the flash but the fate of her Son.
Closed is the contest, and Peace again smiles—
Why by that Beauty is sorrow still cherished?
Oh! 'tis a Widow, whose Soldier-love perished,
Struck by that plague, which lays waste the West Isles.
Lost all she valued, War shows her no danger,
Peace for her broken heart nothing can save:
She, whose torn bosom to Hope is a stranger,
Knows of no Peace—but the Peace of the Grave!
Why by that Beauty is sorrow still cherished?
Oh! 'tis a Widow, whose Soldier-love perished,
Struck by that plague, which lays waste the West Isles.
Lost all she valued, War shows her no danger,
Peace for her broken heart nothing can save:
She, whose torn bosom to Hope is a stranger,
Knows of no Peace—but the Peace of the Grave!
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