Moral Pieces, in Prose and Verse/Victory

by Lydia Sigourney

For works with similar titles, see Victory.

VICTORY.

WAFT not to me the blast of fame,
    That swells the trump of victory,
For to my ear it gives the name
    Of slaughter, and of misery.

Boast not so much of honour's sword,
    Wave not so high the victor's plume;
They point me to the bosom goar'd,
    They point me to the blood-stain'd tomb.

The boastful shout, the revel loud,
    That strive to drown the voice of pain,
What are they but the fickle crowd
    Rejoicing o'er their brethren slain?

And ah, through glory's fading blaze,
    I see the cottage taper, pale,
Which sheds its faint and feeble rays,
    Where unprotected orphans wail:

Where the sad widow weeping stands,
    As if her day of hope was done:
Where the wild mother clasps her hands,
    And asks the victor for her son:

Where the lone maid in secret sighs
    O'er the lost solace of her heart,
As prostrate, in despair, she lies,
    And feels her tortur'd life depart:

Where midst that desolated land,
    The sire lamenting o'er his son,
Extends his weak and powerless hand,
    And finds its only prop is gone.

See, how the bands of war and woe
    Have rifled sweet domestic bliss;
And tell me if your laurels grow,
    And flourish in a soil like this?

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