« 前へ次へ »
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.
Stern tide of human Time! that know'st not rest,
The fisher-skiff, and barge that bears a court,
Sterr. tide of Time! through what mysterious change
Succeeding ages ne'er again shall know,
Well hast thou stood, my Country !—the brave fight
Beside thee Europe's noblest drew the blade,
Well art thou now repaid—though slowly rose,
Rivall’d the heroes of the wat’ry way,
The chosen emblem of thy sainted Knight,
Yet ’mid the confidence of just renown,