I.

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 St. Michael's tower; Thy wood, dark Soignies, holds us now, Where the tall beeches' glossy bough

For many a league around, With birch and darksome oak between, 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.

11.

A brighter, livelier scene succeeds;
In groups 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, Which, with its crest of upland ground, 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 Hougomont's dismantled towers.

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,
Than that which peasant's scythe de-
mands,

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.

Ay, look again-that line, so black
And trampled marks the bivouac,
Yon deep-graved ruts the artillery's track,
So often lost and won;

And close beside, the harden'd mud
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!

Death hover'd o'er the maddening rout,
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 ecstasy

Distinguish every tone

That fill'd the chorus of the frayFrom 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 past.
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, The charge of columns paused not, 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.

The wounded show'd their mangled plight

In token of the unfinish'd fight,
And from each anguish-laden wain
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! My steel-clad cuirassiers, advance! 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!" exclaimed 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 havoc near,

The cohorts' eagles flew.

In one dark torrent, broad and strong,
The advancing onset roll'd along,
Forth harbinger'd by fierce acclaim,
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
Helmet, and plume, and panoply,-
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;
And while amid their close array
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 fall'n, their standards lost.

XIII.

Then, WELLINGTON! thy piercing eye This crisis caught of destiny

The British host had stood That morn 'gainst charge of sword and lance

As their own ocean-rocks hold stance, But when thy voice had said, "Advance!"

They were their ocean's flood. O Thou, whose inauspicious aim Hath wrought thy host this hour of shame,

Think'st thou thy broken bands will bide

The terrors of yon rushing tide?
Or will thy chosen brook to feel
The British shock of levell'd steel,

Or dost thou turn thine eye
Where coming squadrons gleam afar,
And fresher thunders wake the war,
And other standards fly?—
Think not that in yon columns, file
Thy conquering troops from Distant
Dyle-

Is Blucher yet unknown? Or dwells not in thy memory still, (Heard frequent in thine hour of ill,) What notes of hate and vengeance thrill In Prussia's trumpet tone?— What yet remains ?-shall it be thine To head the relics of thy line

In one dread effort more?

The Roman lore thy leisure loved,
And thou canst tell what fortune proved
That Chieftain, who, of yore,
Ambition's dizzy paths essay'd,
And with the gladiators' aid

For empire enterprised-
He stood the cast his rashness play'd,
Left not the victims he had made,
Dug his red grave with his own blade,
And on the field he lost was laid,

Abhorr'd-but not despised.

XIV.

But if revolves thy fainter thought
On safety-howsoever bought,
Then turn thy fearful rein and ride,
Though twice ten thousand men have died
On this eventful day,

To gild the military fame
Which thou, for life, in traffic tame
Wilt barter thus away.

Shall future ages tell this tale
Of inconsistence faint and frail?
And art thou He of Lodi's bridge,
Marengo's field, and Wagram's ridge!

Or is thy soul like mountain-tide,
That, swell'd by winter storm and shower,
Rolls down in turbulence of power,
A torrent fierce and wide;
Reft of these aids, a rill obscure,
Shrinking unnoticed, mean and poor,

Whose channel shows display'd The wrecks of its impetuous course, But not one symptom of the force

By which these wrecks were made!

XV.

Spur on thy way!-since now thine ear Has brook'd thy veterans' wish to hear, Who, as thy flight they eyed, Exclaim'd,-while tears of anguish came, Wrung forth by pride, and rage, and shame,

"O, that he had but died!" But yet, to sum this hour of ill, Look, ere thou leavest the fatal hill,

Back on yon broken ranksUpon whose wild confusion gleams The moon, as on the troubled streams

When rivers break their banks, And, to the ruin'd peasant's eye, Objects half seen roll swiftly by,

Down the dread current hurl'dSo mingle banner, wain, and gun, Where the tumultuous flight rolls on Of warriors, who, when mom begun, Defied a banded world.

XVI. ! List-frequent to the hurrying rout, The stern pursuers' vengeful shout Tells, that upon their broken rear Rages the Prussian's bloody spear. So fell a shriek was none, When Beresina's icy flood Redden'd and thaw'd with flame and blood,

And, pressing on thy desperate way, Raised oft and long their wild hurra, The children of the Don.¿

Thine ear no yell of horror cleft
So ominous, when, all bereft
Of aid, the valiant Polack left-
Ay, left by thee-found soldier's grave
In Leipsic's corpse-encumber'd wave.
Fate, in those various perils past,
Reserved thee still some future cast;
On the dread die thou now has thrown,
Hangs not a single field alone,
Nor one campaign-thy martial fame,
Thy empire, dynasty, and name,

Have felt the final stroke;
And now, o'er thy devoted head
The last stern vial's wrath is shed,
The last dread seal is broke.

XVII.

Since live thou wilt-refuse not now
Before these demagogues to bow,
Late objects of thy scorn and hate,
Who shall thy once imperial fate
Make wordy theme of vain debate.-
Or shall we say, thou stoop'st less low
In seeking refuge from the foe,
Against whose heart, in prosperous life,
Thine hand hath ever held the knife?

Such homage hath been paid
By Roman and by Grecian voice,
And there were honour in the choice,
If it were freely made.
Then safely come-in one so low,-
So lost,
-we cannot own a foe;
Though dear experience bid us end,
In thee we ne'er can hail a friend.-
Come, howsoe'er-but do not hide
Close in thy heart that germ of pride,
Erewhile, by gifted bard espied,

That "yet imperial hope;'
Think not that for a fresh rebound,
To raise ambition from the ground,

We yield thee means or scope.
In safety come-but ne'er again
Hold type of independent reign;

No islet calls thee lord,
We leave thee no confederate band,
No symbol of thy lost command,
To be a dagger in the hand

From which we wrench'd the sword.

XVIII.

Yet, even in yon sequester'd spot, May worthier conquest by thy lot Than yet thy life has known;

Conquest, unbought by blood or harm, That needs nor foreign aid nor arm,

A triumph all thine own. Such waits thee when thou shalt control Those passions wild, that stubborn soul, That marr'd thy prosperous scene:— Hear this-from no unmoved heart, Which sighs, comparing what THOU ART With what thou MIGHT'ST HAVE BEEN!

XIX.

Thou, too, whose deeds of fame renew'd
Bankrupt a nation's gratitude,

To thine own noble heart must owe
More than the meed she can bestow.
For not a people's just acclaim,
Not the full hail of Europe's fame,
Thy Prince's smiles, thy State's decree,
The ducal rank, the garter'd knee,
Not these such pure delight afford
As that, when hanging up thy sword,
Well may'st thou think, "This honest
steel

Was ever drawn for public weal;
And, such was rightful Heaven's decree,
Ne'er sheathed unless with victory!"

XX.

Look forth, once more, with soften'd heart,

Ere from the field of fame we part;
Triumph and Sorrow border near,
And joy oft melts into a tear.
Alas! what links of love that morn
Has War's rude hand asunder torn!
For ne'er was field so sternly fought,
And ne'er was conquest dearer bought.
Here piled in common slaughter sleep
Those whom affection long shall weep:
Here rests the sire, that ne'er shall strain
His orphans to his heart again;

The son, whom, on his native shore,
The parent's voice shall bless no more;
The bridegroom, who has hardly press'd
His blushing consort to his breast;
The husband, whom through many a year
Long love and mutual faith endear.
Thou canst not name one tender tie,
But here dissolved its relics lie!
O! when thou see'st some mourner's veil
Shroud her thin form and visage pale,