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Or, return’d from well-fought field, 
When the victor throws aside 
Both his dinted helm and shield 
And his sword in crimson dyed, 
O’er his trophies let thy green branches wave; 
For what so fit a meed 
From the country he has freed; 
As the laurel-wreath decreed 
To the brave? 
Such the deeds thou lovest to grace — 
But, thou proud triumphal tree, 
Soon shall time thy wreaths deface, 
And those deeds forgotten be; 
Born of earth, with things of earth they must die 
But there is a fame shall last, 
When earth’s flitting glory’s past. 
And a branch no adverse blast 
.Shall destroy. 
’T is, like thee, the victor’s meed ; 
But it decks not poet’s grave, 
Nor the warrior’s martial deed, 
No — ’t is only seen to wave 
n 3 
