Helmet and plume and saber, banner and lance and shield, Scattered in sad confusion over the trampled field; And the band of broken soldiers, with a weary, hopeless air, With heads in silence drooping, and eyes of grim despair. Like foam-flakes left on the drifting sand In the track of a falling tide, On the ground where their cause has failed they stand, The last of the losing side. Wisdom of age is vanquished, and generous hopes of youth, Passion of faith and honor, fire of love and truth; And the plans that seemed the fairest in the fight have not prevailed, The keenest blades are broken, and the strongest arms have failed. But souls that know not the breath of shame, And tongues that have never lied, And the truest hearts, and the fairest fame, Are here--on the losing side. The conqueror's crown of glory is set with many a gem, But I join not in their triumph--there are plenty to shout for _them;_ The cause is the most applauded whose warriors gain the day, And the world's best smiles are given to the victors in the fray. But dearer to me is the darkened plain, Where the noblest dreams have died, Where hopes have been shattered and heroes slain In the ranks of the losing side. --Arthur E. J. Legge. IO VICTIS 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.