I sing the hymn of the conquered, who fell in the battle of life, The hymn of the wounded and beaten, who died overwhelmed in the strife; Not the jubilant song of the victors, for whom the resounding acclaim Of nations was lifted in chorus, whose brows wore the chaplet of fame, But the hymn of the low and the humble, the weary and broken in heart, Who strove and who failed, acting bravely a silent and desperate part; Whose youth bore no flower on its branches, whose hopes burned in ashes away, From whose hands slipped the prize they had grasped at, who stood at the dying of day With the wreck of their life all around them, unpitied, unheeded, alone, With death swooping down o'er their failure, and all but their faith overthrown.
While the voice of the world shouts its chorus--its pean for those who have won; While the trumpet is sounding triumphant, and high to the breeze and the sun Glad banners are waving, hands clapping, and hurrying feet Thronging after the laurel-crowned victors, I stand on the field of defeat, In the shadow, with those who are fallen, and wounded, and dying, and there Chant a requiem low, place my hand on their pain-knotted brows, breathe a prayer, Hold the hand that is helpless, and whisper, "They only the victory win, Who have fought the good fight and have vanquished the demon that tempts us within; Who have held to their faith unseduced by the prize that the world holds on high; Who have dared for a high cause to suffer, resist, fight--if need be, to die."
Speak, History! who are Life's victors? Unroll thy long annals and say, Are they those whom the world called the victors? who won the success of a day? The martyrs, or Nero? The Spartans who fell at Thermopylæ's tryst, Or the Persians and Xerxes? His judges, or Socrates? Pilate, or Christ?
'Tis not wealth that makes a king, Nor the purple coloring; Nor the brow that's bound with gold, Nor gate on mighty hinges rolled.
The king is he who, void of fear, Looks abroad with bosom clear; Who can tread ambition down, Nor be swayed by smile or frown, Nor for all the treasure cares, That mine conceals or harvest wears, Or that golden sands deliver Bosomed in the glassy river.
What shall move his placid might? Not the headlong thunder's light, Nor all the shapes of slaughter's trade, With onward lance or fiery blade. Safe, with wisdom for his crown, He looks on all things calmly down, He welcomes Fate when Fate is near, Nor taints his dying breath with fear.