There the fierce Victor waves his sword, and there
Stalks amid ruin, and the waste of war:
And, where he bids the din of arms to cease,
He calls the silent desolation—peace.
Yet what his prize of glory? What the gain
Of his wide conquest, of his thousands slain?—
His guilty seat on thrones subverted stands;
His trophies are the spoil of injured lands:
For his dark brow no comely wreath is twined,
But iron[32] crowns and blood-stain’d laurels bind.