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THERE S blood on the laurel that wreathes his brow, | |
And the death-cry delights his ear! | |
The widow is wailing his victory, now, | |
And his meed is the orphans tear! | |
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But the might of his arm shall lose its dread, | 5 |
For a mightier foe comes near; | |
The plume must be strippd from the conquerors head, | |
To nod oer the conquerors bier! | |
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Alone he must march to the terrible fight, | |
For there is no army to save! | 10 |
His glory must set in an endless night, | |
And his honors shall hide in the grave! | |
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He must measure the darksome valley alone, | |
Assaild by remorse and fear; | |
Nor rod, nor staff help the traveller on, | 15 |
Nor is there a comforter near. | |
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He sinks! and none shall his requiem sound, | |
Nor sprinkle his turf with tears; | |
His head with a clod of the vale is crownd, | |
And a shroud is the buckler he wears. | 20 |
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His terrible spirit has spurnd its clay, | |
As a rampart, too weak and thin, | |
And shivering, and naked hath past away | |
From the house where it dwelt to sin, | |
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But who shall follow the fugitive home | 25 |
When his last great battle is oer; | |
Or, the curtain remove, when it veils the doom | |
Of the soul on an untried shore! | |
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