University of Virginia Library

2. PART SECOND.

Eternal Spirit, thou who promisest
That, when some few are gather'd in thy name,
Thou art amidst them! that the humble prayer
Is not unheard by thee,—didst thou not gaze
With favour, when the climes of half the world,
Mov'd with one impulse, sent their children forth
To dash the tyrant from his tainted throne?—
—Strange were the offerings on that Sabbath-day,
And stern the priests, who watch'd the sacrifice
On Waterloo's red field!—for choral hymn
Was heard the cannon's shock,—black incense steam'd
Against the cloudy heaven! proud warriors there,
For whom the trumpet peal'd a matin-note,
Lie cold, and cannot hear the screams and shrieks,
That shock the ear of night—and cannot hear
The shout of Britain's pride, of Prussia's joy!
—Never from Indian island, lately taught
The Christian's happy creed, where, underneath
The grove's cool boughs, meet many a family
On Sabbath eve, arose a hymn more sweet
To claim the ear of Heaven, than from that field
Of blood, when, gazing on the piles of dead,
The fainting soldier sigh'd his gratitude!—
On what a scene that morning Sun arose!—
Struggling through heavy mists, his watery beams
Shone coldly on that fated plain, and gleam'd
On groves, whose boughs, rent by the midnight storm,
All bare of beauty lay;—from weary bed
The warrior started, on whose fretting ear
All night the voices of the changing winds,
The shivering of branches, and the calls
Of centinel from foreign bivouack,
Came ceaseless, often with that lulling sound,
Which brings the hope of sleep, in mockery,
To him who fain in sleep would lose the thoughts,
The anxious thoughts, that crowd upon his soul—
The Sun arose, and on the drear cold fields
Of Waterloo he shines,—a sadder sight
Is there in those who hail his beams with hope,
And will not rise to hail a second dawn—
What rapture swell'd the vein, what eloquence
Of lip, and eye, and gesture! there were those
Who in the battle liv'd a thousand lives,
If life were measur'd by the warrior's joy;—
Now, now the tide tumultuous rolls along,
Swift as the clouds in winter's chilling night,
That, hurrying onward, with their dusky folds
Darken the moon,—swift as their shadows sweep
Along a plain of snow or level lake!—
Look, look how rapidly yon coursers press
Up through those shrouds of smoke:—at times you hear
The shouting riders, when the glancing hoof
Bounds light on softer earth—at times you see,
When the breeze wafts aside the battle-cloud,
The dark brow guarded by the shadowy helm,
The cuirass sparkling on the warrior's breast,
The long lance levell'd in the steady hand.—
And oft before the lancers' charging lines
The blue sword's momentary gleams are seen
In horizontal whirl of rapid light,
Or downward ray direct—with thundering tramp
The courser presses on—“Revenge—Revenge!”
Is Brunswick's battle-shout—“Revenge—Revenge!”
And well, stern mourners, worthily and well
Did you avenge your Lord—ye did not shrink,
Ye did not falter, when, with tempest-force,
France pour'd upon your squares her chivalry!—
See, where they meet—the pride of England meets
The veteran strength of France—and who shall tell
The tidings of such meeting? who shall live
To say, “My brethren perish'd by my side?”—
Proudly the Eagle, with exulting wing,
Hath revell'd in the tempest;—will he shrink
From this day's storm? untrembling we have view'd
His proudest flights, and shall we tremble now?—
Loud o'er the dinning field, like battle-whoop
Heard in some Indian vale, the hordes of France
Shout in mad revelry their leader's name.
They charge—they shrink—they fly!—With bolder sweep
Another charge is made;—again they shrink—
And yet another dash.—Ha! there they stand,
An overpowering force—with frantic shout
The groves of Hougomont are ringing.—Hark!—
Again the cry of Britain!—From that wood
How few shall fly!—France charges not in vain,
And, black with blood, the heavy tri-color
Flaps o'er the walls of La-Haye-Sainte!—Still, still
In swift succession rush the hosts of France,
And still the Britons stand in steady square.
On what a scene the evening sun descends—
The doubtful battle still unfix'd—the rage
Of France—the force of England.—Still they strive,
Till now the angel of the evening star
Sheds vainly upon earth his smile of peace,
And from her throne in heaven the summer moon
Shines in her silent beauty; she beholds
A strange and troubled scene.—I will not tell
The fatal flight of France—I will not pause
To gaze on Blucher:—Who hath not receiv'd,
With joy, that mocks the poet's utterance,
The happy tale?—Yet could I wish to sing
The moonlight meeting, when the Prussian chief,
Who veil'd the furrow'd brow and hoary hair
With the accustom'd helm, in joyous hour
Greeted victorious Wellesley;—'twas an hour
Of pride that man can seldom register,
Yea, centuries have slowly waned along,
And, in their lapsing seasons, no such scene
Of glory through the varied record shines!