Page:Battle-Pieces and Aspects of the War.djvu/189

Rh But seldom the laurel wreath is seen

Unmixed with pensive pansies dark;

There's a light and a shadow on every man

Who at last attains his lifted mark—

Nursing through night the ethereal spark.

Elate he never can be;

He feels that spirits which glad had hailed his worth,

Sleep in oblivion.—The shark

Glides white through the prosphorus sea.