  It may be some apology for the imperfections of this Poem, that it was composed hastily, during a short tour upon the continent, when the Author’s labours were liable to frequent interruption. But its best vindication is, that it was written for the purpose of assisting the Waterloo Subscription.
Fair Brussels, thou art far behind, Though, lingering on the morning wind, We yet may hear the hour Peal’d over orchard and canal, With voice prolong’d and measured fall, From proud Saint Michael’s tower. Thy wood, dark Soignies, holds us now, Where the tall beeches’ glossy bough For many a league around, Spreads deep and far a pathless screen, Of tangled forest ground. Stems planted close by stems defy The adventurous foot—the curious eye For access seeks in vain; And the brown tapestry of leaves, Strew’d on the blighted ground, receives Nor sun, nor air, nor rain. No opening glade dawns on our way, No streamlet, glancing to the ray, Our woodland path has cross’d; And the straight causeway which we tread, Prolongs a line of dull arcade, Unvarying through the unvaried shade Until in distance lost. II.A brighter, livelier scene succeeds; In groupes the scattering wood recedes, Hedge-rows, and huts, and sunny meads, And corn-fields glance between; The peasant, at his labour blithe, Plies the hook’d staff and shorten’d scythe:— But when these ears were green, Placed close within destruction’s scope, Full little was that rustic’s hope Their ripening to have seen! And, lo, a hamlet and its fane:— Let not the gazer with disdain Their architecture view; For yonder rude ungraceful shrine, And disproportion’d spire, are thine, Immortal Waterloo! III.Fear not the heat, though full and high The sun has scorch’d the autumn sky, And scarce a forest straggler now To shade us spreads a greenwood bough These fields have seen a hotter day Than e’er was fired by sunny ray. Yet one mile on—yon shatter’d hedge Crests the soft hill whose long smooth ridge Looks on the field below, And sinks so gently on the dale, That not the folds of Beauty’s veil In easier curves can flow. Brief space from thence, the ground again Ascending slowly from the plain, Forms an opposing screen, Shuts the horizon all around. The soften’d vale between Slopes smooth and fair for courser’s tread; Not the most timid maid need dread To give her snow-white palfrey head On that wide stubble-ground; Nor wood, nor tree, nor bush are there, Her course to intercept or scare, Nor fosse nor fence are found, Save where, from out her shatter’d bowers, Rise Hougoumont’s dismantled towers. IV.Now, see’st thou aught in this lone scene Can tell of that which late hath been?— A stranger might reply, Seems lately lighten’d of its grain; And yonder sable tracks remain Marks of the peasant’s ponderous wain, When harvest-home was nigh. On these broad spots of trampled ground, Perchance the rustics danced such round As Teniers loved to draw; And where the earth seems scorch’d by flame, To dress the homely feast they came, And toil’d the kerchief’d village dame Around her fire of straw.”— V.So deem’st thou—so each mortal deems, Of that which is from that which seems:— But other harvest here Was gather’d in by sterner hands, With bayonet, blade, and spear. No vulgar crop was theirs to reap, No stinted harvest thin and cheap! Heroes before each fatal sweep Fell thick as ripen’d grain; And ere the darkening of the day, Piled high as autumn shocks, there lay The ghastly harvest of the fray, The corpses of the slain. VI.Aye, look again—that line so black And trampled, marks the bivouack, Yon deep-graved ruts the artillery’s track, So often lost and won Still shows where, fetlock-deep in blood, The fierce dragoon, through battle’s flood, Dash’d the hot war-horse on. These spots of excavation tell The ravage of the bursting shell— And feel’st thou not the tainted steam, That reeks against the sultry beam, From yonder trenched mound? The pestilential fumes declare That Carnage has replenish’d there Her garner-house profound. VII.Far other harvest-home and feast, Than claims the boor from scythe released, On these scorch’d fields were known! And, in the thrilling battle-shout, Sent for the bloody banquet out A summons of his own. Through rolling smoke the Demon’s eye Could well each destined guest espy, Well could his ear in ecstacy Distinguish every tone That fill’d the chorus of the fray— From cannon-roar and trumpet-bray, From charging squadrons’ wild hurra, From the wild clang that mark’d their way,— Down to the dying groan, And the last sob of life’s decay When breath was all but flown. VIII.Feast on, stern foe of mortal life, Feast on!—but think not that a strife, With such promiscuous carnage rife, Protracted space may last; The deadly tug of war at length Must limits find in human strength, And cease when these are pass’d. Vain hope!—that morn’s o’erclouded sun Heard the wild shout of fight begun Ere he attain’d his height, And through the war-smoke volumed high, Still peals that unremitted cry, Though now he stoops to night. For ten long hours of doubt and dread, Fresh succours from the extended head Of either hill the contest fed; Still down the slope they drew, Nor ceased the storm of shell and shot; For all that war could do Of skill and force was proved that day, And turn’d not yet the doubtful fray On bloody Waterloo. IX.Pale Brussels! then what thoughts were thine, When ceaseless from the distant line Continued thunders came! Each burgher held his breath, to hear These forerunners of havock near, Of rapine and of flame. What ghastly sights were thine to meet, When, rolling through thy stately street, The wounded shew’d their mangled plight In token of the unfinish’d fight, The blood-drops laid thy dust like rain! How often in the distant drum Heard’st thou the fell Invader come, While Ruin, shouting to his band, Shook high her torch and gory brand!— Cheer thee, fair City! From yon stand, Impatient, still his outstretch’d hand Points to his prey in vain, While maddening in his eager mood, And all unwont to be withstood, He fires the fight again. X.“On! On!” was still his stern exclaim; “Confront the battery’s jaws of flame! “Rush on the levell’d gun! “Each Hulan forward with his lance, “My Guard—my chosen—charge for France, “France and Napoleon!” Loud answer’d their acclaiming shout, Greeting the mandate which sent out Their bravest and their best to dare The fate their leader shunn’d to share. But He, his country’s sword and shield, Still in the battle-front reveal’d, Where danger fiercest swept the field, Came like a beam of light, In action prompt, in sentence brief— “Soldiers, stand firm,” exclaim’d the Chief, “England shall tell the fight!” XI.On came the whirlwind—like the last But fiercest sweep of tempest blast— On came the whirlwind—steel-gleams broke Like lightning through the rolling smoke, The war was waked anew, Three hundred cannon-mouths roar’d loud, And from their throats, with flash and cloud, Their showers of iron threw. Beneath their fire, in full career, Rush’d on the ponderous cuirassier, The lancer couch’d his ruthless spear, And hurrying as to havock near, The Cohorts’ eagles flew. In one dark torrent broad and strong, The advancing onset roll’d along, That, from the shroud of smoke and flame, Peal’d wildly the imperial name. XII.But on the British heart were lost The terrors of the charging host; For not an eye the storm that view’d Changed its proud glance of fortitude, Nor was one forward footstep staid, As dropp’d the dying and the dead. Fast as their ranks the thunders tear, Fast they renew’d each serried square; And on the wounded and the slain Closed their diminish’d files again, Till from their line scarce spears’ lengths three, Emerging from the smoke they see Then waked their fire at once! Each musketeer’s revolving knell, As fast, as regularly fell, As when they practise to display Their discipline on festal day. Then down went helm and lance, Down were the eagle banners sent, Down reeling steeds and riders went, Corslets were pierced, and pennons rent; And to augment the fray, Wheel’d full against their staggering flanks, The English horsemen’s foaming ranks Forced their resistless way. Then to the musket-knell succeeds The clash of swords—the neigh of steeds— As plies the smith his clanging trade, Against the cuirass rang the blade; The well-served cannon rent their way, And while amid their scatter’d band Raged the fierce rider’s bloody brand, Recoil’d in common rout and fear, Lancer and guard and cuirassier, Horsemen and foot,—a mingled host, Their leaders fallen, their standards lost. XIII. |
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