 | The harp and plow |  |
87
LINES TO A BULLET FROM THE FIELD OF WATERLOO.
Bullet from the famous fray,
Waterloo!
Long ago, and far away,—
Bloody Waterloo!
Looking on thy battered form,
Fancy paints the sulphur storm;
Paints the red sod reeking warm;
Paints dread Waterloo!
Waterloo!
Long ago, and far away,—
Bloody Waterloo!
Looking on thy battered form,
Fancy paints the sulphur storm;
Paints the red sod reeking warm;
Paints dread Waterloo!
Ball from the mighty battle, say,
Was thy flight harmless on that day?
A gunner's practised eye can see
Scarce harmless could thy mission be;
Cain's murderous marks on thee impress'd,
Puts sceptic doubt at once to rest.
Was thy flight harmless on that day?
A gunner's practised eye can see
Scarce harmless could thy mission be;
Cain's murderous marks on thee impress'd,
Puts sceptic doubt at once to rest.
Hadst thou a tongue, then such a tale
As wets the cheek of Pity, pale,
Thou mightst reveal, thyself to show
The witless cause of weighty woe.
As wets the cheek of Pity, pale,
Thou mightst reveal, thyself to show
The witless cause of weighty woe.
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In some sweet, rural spot, perchance
A vineyard green of sunny France,
Some love-lorn maiden long bemourned
Thy conscript victim unreturned;
Wandered the purpling alleys o'er
Lamenting him she saw no more.
And he, prone on the trampled soil,
Amidst the raging fight's turmoil,
Wept with affection's feeling true
As he recalled her last adieu,
The scenes, the hopes of youthful prime,
Fast fading with the ebb of time.
A vineyard green of sunny France,
Some love-lorn maiden long bemourned
Thy conscript victim unreturned;
Wandered the purpling alleys o'er
Lamenting him she saw no more.
And he, prone on the trampled soil,
Amidst the raging fight's turmoil,
Wept with affection's feeling true
As he recalled her last adieu,
The scenes, the hopes of youthful prime,
Fast fading with the ebb of time.
Perchance on haughty Albion's shore
Some titled mourners did deplore
In all the pageantry of woe,
One whom thy fatal flight laid low;
One who found death in seeking fame—
The bubble of a sounding name.
Some titled mourners did deplore
In all the pageantry of woe,
One whom thy fatal flight laid low;
One who found death in seeking fame—
The bubble of a sounding name.
Perhaps in heathered Scottish dell
Was heard the pibrock's wailing swell
Filling the clannish haunts with grief
For ‘bonnie lad’ or ‘Hieland chief,’
Whose tartan was his shrouding, too,
Beneath the turf of Waterloo.
Was heard the pibrock's wailing swell
Filling the clannish haunts with grief
For ‘bonnie lad’ or ‘Hieland chief,’
Whose tartan was his shrouding, too,
Beneath the turf of Waterloo.
Perhaps one bowed by many years
Went grieving down the ‘vale of tears,’
Of whose declining days the stay
Thou didst in battle strike away,
And left embittered, hopeless age
To mourn Ambition's jealous rage.
Went grieving down the ‘vale of tears,’
Of whose declining days the stay
Thou didst in battle strike away,
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To mourn Ambition's jealous rage.
O, fell Ambition! thou hast sown
Discordant seeds, and warrings grown;
Plucked up the peaceful olives where
They grew, and set hell's bale-fires there.
O, fell Ambition,—heartless fiend!
What horrid harvests thou hast gleaned!
The battle field thy threshing floor;
Thy garners stained with human gore!
Discordant seeds, and warrings grown;
Plucked up the peaceful olives where
They grew, and set hell's bale-fires there.
O, fell Ambition,—heartless fiend!
What horrid harvests thou hast gleaned!
The battle field thy threshing floor;
Thy garners stained with human gore!
Wert thou a relic, blood ensealed,
From Saratoga's storied field;
From Monmouth's plain, or Bunker's height—
Spots dear to Freedom and the Right,—
Then wouldst thou seem another thing;
Then nobler numbers might I sing;
Then this I write, to him who read,
Might not be leaden Lines on Lead;
But both my musings and my theme
Seem bright as Californian dream.
Then on my horn-hard palm I'd take
Thee, for my soldier grandsire's sake,
And see a halo round thee shine
To warm my heart and gild my line;
For in thy battered form I'd see
The daysman of my liberty;
And show thee up to tyrants, for
Remembrancer and monitor.
From Saratoga's storied field;
From Monmouth's plain, or Bunker's height—
Spots dear to Freedom and the Right,—
Then wouldst thou seem another thing;
Then nobler numbers might I sing;
Then this I write, to him who read,
Might not be leaden Lines on Lead;
But both my musings and my theme
Seem bright as Californian dream.
Then on my horn-hard palm I'd take
Thee, for my soldier grandsire's sake,
And see a halo round thee shine
To warm my heart and gild my line;
For in thy battered form I'd see
The daysman of my liberty;
And show thee up to tyrants, for
Remembrancer and monitor.
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But when ambitious man sits down
And counts his chances for a crown,
And reckons up with idle pen
The hecatombs of fellow men
That he must marshal out to die
To throne him regally and high;
When tyrant power sends forth its slaves
To murderous fight and bloody graves,—
No freeborn bard may wake the strain
Heroic, o'er th' ensanguined plain,
Or kindle at a thing like you,
Ball from the field of Waterloo!
And counts his chances for a crown,
And reckons up with idle pen
The hecatombs of fellow men
That he must marshal out to die
To throne him regally and high;
When tyrant power sends forth its slaves
To murderous fight and bloody graves,—
No freeborn bard may wake the strain
Heroic, o'er th' ensanguined plain,
Or kindle at a thing like you,
Ball from the field of Waterloo!
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