Page:Olive Buds.pdf/52

Rh

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 gor'd,    They point me to the blood-stained 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: