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Or mark'st the Matron's bursting tears To each the dear-earn'd praise assign, Stream when the stricken drum she hears; | From high-born chiefs of martial fame Or seest how manlier grief, suppress'd, | To the poor soldier's lowlier name? Is labouring in a father's breast, – Lightly ye rose that dawning day, With no inquiry vain pursue

From your cold couch of swamp and clay, The cause, but think on Waterloo ! To fill, before the sun was low,

The bed that morning cannot know. XXI,

Oft may the tear the green sod steep, Period of honour as of woes,

And sacred be the heroes' sleep, What bright careers 'twas thine to Till time shall cease to run ; close !—

And ne'er beside their noble grave, Mark'd on thy roll of blood what names May Briton pass and fail to crave To Briton's memory, and to Fame's, A blessing on the fallen brave Laid there their last immortal claims!

Who fought with Wellington ! Thou saw'st in seas of gore expire Redoubted PICTON's soul of fire

XXIII. Saw'st in the mingled carnage lie

Farewell, sad Field! whose blighted face All that of PONSONBY could die

Wears desolation's withering trace; DE LANCEY change Love's bridal- | Long shall my memory retain wreath,

Thy shatter'd huts and trampled grain, For laurels from the hand of Death With every mark of martial wrong, Saw'st gallant MILLER's failing eye That scathe thy towers, fair Hougomont. Still bent where Albion's banners fly, Yet though thy garden's green arcade And CAMERON, in the shock of steel, The marksman's fatal post was made, Die like the offspring of Lochiel ;

Though on thy shatter'd beeches feil And generous GORDON, 'mid the strife, The blended rage of shot and shell, Fall while he watch'd his leader's life. — Though from thy blacken'd portals torn, Ah! though her guardian angel's shield Their fall thy blighted fruit-trees mour, Fenced Britain's hero through the field, Has not such havoc bought a name Fate not the less her power made known, Immortal in the rolls of fame! Through his friends' hearts to pierce his Yes-Agincourt may be forgot, own!

And Cressy be an unknown spot,

And Blenheim's name be new; XXII.

But still in story and in song, Forgive, brave Dead, the imperfect lay! .| For many an age remember'd long, Who may your names, your numbers, say? Shall live the towers of Hougomont, What high-strung harp, what lofty line, And Field of Waterloo.

CONCLUSION.

Stern tide of human Time! that know'st not rest,
But, sweeping from the cradle to the tomb,
Bear'st ever downward on thy dusky breast
Successive generations to their doom ;
While thy capacious stream has equal room
For the gay bark where Pleasure's streamers sport,
And for the prison-ship of guilt and gloom,

The fisher-skiff, and barge that bears a court,
Still wafting onward all to one dark silent port ;-

Sterr. tide of Time! through what mysterious change
Of hope and fear have our frail barks been driven !
For ne'er, before, vicissitude so strange
Was to one race of Adam's offspring given.
And sure such varied change of sea and heaven,
Such unexpected bursts of joy and woe,
Such fearful strife as that where we have striven,

Succeeding ages ne'er again shall know,
Until the awful term when Thou shalt cease to flow.

Well hast thou stood, my Country !—the brave fight
Hast well maintain’d through good report and ill;
In thy just cause and in thy native might,
And in Heaven's grace and justice constant still ;
Whether the banded prowess, strength, and skill
Of half the world against thee stood array'd,
Or when, with better views and freer will,

Beside thee Europe's noblest drew the blade,
Each emulous in arms the Ocean Queen to aid.

Well art thou now repaid—though slowly rose,
And struggled long with mists thy blaze of fame,
While like the dawn that in the orient glows
On the broad wave its earlier lustre came;
Then eastern Egypt saw the growing flame,
And Maida's myrtles gleam'd beneath its ray,
Where first the soldier, stung with generous shame,

Rivall’d the heroes of the wat’ry way,
And wash'd in foemen's gore unjust reproach away.
Now, Island Empress, wave thy crest on high,
And bid the banner of thy Patron flow,
Gallant Saint George, the flower of Chivalry,
For thou hast faced, like him, a dragon foe,
And rescued innocence from overthrow,
And trampled down, like him, tyrannic might,
And to the gazing world mayst proudly show

The chosen emblem of thy sainted Knight,
Who quell’d devouring pride, and vindicated right

Yet ’mid the confidence of just renown,
Renown dear-bought, but dearest thus acquired,
Write, Britain, write the moral lesson down:
'Tis not alone the heart with valour fired,
The discipline so dreaded and admired,
In many a field of bloody conquest known;
-Such may by fame be lured, by gold be hired-
'Tis constancy in the good cause alone,
Best justifies the meed thy valiant sons have won.

HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS.

A POEM.

IN SIX CANTOS.

1816.

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