No opening glade dawns on our way,
No streamlet, glancing to the ray,

Our woodland path has crossd;
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 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 book'd staff and shorten d scythe :-(1)

But when these cars 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 chine,
Immortal WATERLOO !

JII.
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 green-wood 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, por 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.

And where the earth seems scorch'd by tlame,
To dress the homely feast they came,
And toild the kerchiefd village dame
Around her fire of straw.

V.
So deem'st thou-so each mortal deerns,
Of that which is from that which seems:

But other harvest here
Than that which peasant's scythe 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 bivouack,
Yon deep-graved ruts, the artillery's track,

So often lost and won;
And close beside, the harden'd mud
Still show's 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 those 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 quest espy,
Well could his car in ecstasy

Distinguish every tone
That filld 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.

IV.
Now, seest 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 lighteo'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;

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 passid.

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 uvremitted 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.

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.

IX.
Pale Brussels! then what thoughts were thine, (2)
When ceaseless from the distant line

Continued thunders came!
Each burgher held his breath to hear
These forerunners of havoc near,

Of rapine and of flame.
What ghastly sights were thine to meet,
When rolling through thy stately street,
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!
Ilow often in tbe distant drum
Heard'st thou the fell Invader come,
While Ruin, shouting to his baud,
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.

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' length 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; (6)
And while amid their close array
The well-served cannon rent their way,
And while amid their scatter'd band
Rayed 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.

X. « On! On!» was still his stcrn exclaim, «Confront the battery's jaws of fame!

Rush on the levell d gun! (3) 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. (4) But He, his country's sword and shield, Still in the battle-front reveald, 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 !»(5)

XI. On came the whirlwind--like the last But fiercest sweep of tempest blastOn came the whirlwind-steal-gleams broke Like lightning through the rolling smoke.

The war was waked anew;

XII.
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 owa 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 levelld 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 you 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 potes of hate and vengeance thrill

Jo 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 ficld he lost was laid,

Abhorrd—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

Will 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!

And, to the ruin'd peasant's eye,
Objects half seen roll swiftly by,

Down the dread current burld-
So mingle banner, wain, and gun,
Where the tumultuous flight rolls on
Of warriors, who, when morn begun,
Detied a banded world.

XVI.
List-frequent to the hurrying rout,
The stern pursuers' vengeful shout
Tells, that

upon

thetr 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 po yell of horror cleft
So ominous, when, all bereft
Of aid, the valiant Polack left-
Ay, left by thec—found soldier's grave
In Leipsic's corse-encumber'd wave.
Fate, in these various perils past,
Reserved thee still some future cast :-
On the dread die thou now hast thrown
Hangs not a single field alone,
Nor one campaigo-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 bath 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

-we cannot own a foe;
Though dear experience bid us end,
In thee we pe'er cap 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.

XV.
Spur on thy way?--since now thine ear
Has brook'd thy veterans' wish to hear,

Who, as thy fight they eyed,
Exclaim d—while tears of anguish came,
Wrung forth by pride and

rage

and shame,« Oh that be had but died ! » But yet, to sum this hour of ill, Look, ere thou leavest the fatal hill,

Back on yon broken raoks-
Upon whose wild confusion gleams
The moon, as on the troubled streams

When rivers break their banks,