The Return

David Cleghorn Thomson

When the last gun had spoken
Glad I arose and went
Unto my father, substance spent
And body broken.

And in my brother’s eyes
Envy mingled with pride—
To him a grudging fate denied
The boon of sacrifice.

All that I strove to forget
The glow of welcome blurred—
Home, and the kindly spoken word,
The banquet set.

Let him not envy now
The hero’s pedestal!
Pity and privileges pall,
And rust creeps slow.

The grateful state is kind—
It furnishes my needs,
While rotting memories like weeds
Feed on my fallow mind.