The Field of Waterloo: A POEM. 'Though Valois braved young Edward's gentle hand, Nor Audley's squires nor Mowbray's yeomen brook'd,— ΤΟ HER GRACE THE DUCHESS OF WELLINGTON, PRINCESS OF WATERLOO, THE FOLLOWING VERSES ARE MOST RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED BY THE AUTHOR. It may be some apology for the imperfections of this poem, that it was composed hastily, and during a short tour upon the Continent, when the Author's labours were liable to frequent interruption; but its best apology is, that it was written for the purpose of assisting the Waterloo Subscription. 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; 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 architecture view; III. Fear not the heat, though full and high The sun has scorch'd the autumn sky, These fields have seen a hotter day Looks on the field below, And sinks so gently on the dale, 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 is there, Her course to intercept or scare, Nor fosse nor fence is found, Save where, from out her shatter'd bowers, Rise Hougomont'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, 'The bare extent of stubble-plain 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, Than that which peasant's scythe That fill'd the chorus of the fray demands, 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 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, The deadly tug of war at length And cease when these are past. Vain hope that morn's o'erclouded sun Heard the wild shout of fight begun 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. IX. Pale Brussels! then what thoughts were thine, When ceaseless from the distant line Of rapine and of flame. What ghastly sights were thine to meet, When rolling through thy stately street, The wounded show'd their mangled Three hundred cannon-mouths roar'd plight In token of the unfinish'd fight, Cheer thee, fair City! From yon stand, 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,' exclaim'd the Chief, 'England shall tell the fight!' XI. On came the whirlwind, like the last But fiercest sweep of tempest-blastOn came the whirlwind! steel-gleams broke Like lightning through the rolling smoke; The war was waked anew; 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 Emerging from the smoke they see Then waked their fire at once! 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 ofswords, 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 dost thou turn thine eye 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 this eventful day, Or is thy soul like mountain-tide, That, swell'd by winter storm and shower, Rolls down in turbulence of power, 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!' |