by John Kearsley Mitchell
The walls are won, the smouldering piles
Proclaim the combat o'er ;
The victor on the ruin smiles,
And waves his hand of gore.
The widow'd wife may seek her love,
Amidst his burning lair.
The madden'd mother wildly rove
To find her children — where ?
The maid may shriek as falls her pride.
For home and heart contending,
HurlM from the conquer'd ramparts side,
His last look on her bending.
Last updated June 27, 2019