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Show Triumph. Not he who rides through, conquered I city's gate, At heud of bhioned hosts, and to the sound Of victors' trumpets. In full pomp and state Of war, the utmost pitch has dreamed or found. To which the thrill of triumph can be wound; Not he who by a nation's vast acclaim Is audden sought and singled out alone. And while the people madly shout his name. Without a conscious purpose of his own. Is swung and lifted to the nation's throne; Hut he who has all single-handed stood, with furs Invisible on every side And, unsuspected of the multitude, Thu force of fate Itself has dared, defied. de-fied. And conquered silently , . , , ,. . Ah, that soul knows In what white heat the blood of triumph Kiowa! |