With the work 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 pæan for those who have won,—
While the trumpet is sounding triumphant, and high to the breeze and the sun
Gay banners are waving, hands clapping, and hurrying feet
Thronging after the laurel-crowned victors, I stand on the field of defeat,
In the shadow ’mongst 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 hapless, and whisper, “They only the victory win
Who have fought the good fight, and have vanquished the demon that tempts us within;