University of Virginia Library

Wellington: a Historical Ode.

I. INTRODUCTION.

Brothers; we met around a father's grave
A few swift years ago: the earth we clave
As breathless with our loss as we had been
With triumphs, when upon a hundred plains
We followed him, where flashed the steel more keen,
The battle spread in redder stains.
Then looked we back upon his life, that road
Of victory, secure and long and broad,
With patience paved and virtue, Roman way,
Grand march of life heroic, which he drew,
His children paced; it leads from far Assaye,
And thence returns to Waterloo.

2

Peace was his end; 'twas well; he wrought for peace
That iron road: his war made war to cease.
No other hand could stay the reign of blood,
The Fury Revolution, who had come
Of ancient tyranny, the monstrous brood
That leaped with groaning from the womb.
Think, brothers, living in a peaceful time
Of all the ravage, all the public crime,
The fields they fought, when earth was heaped with slain,
And mourned to be one open burial-place;
The fleets they filled, whose relics strewed the main;
Yearned Ocean o'er the human race.
The lust, the rage, the blood, the agony;
The horror-stricken nations dismally
Labouring out they knew not what: the end
Which comes not yet, O brothers! now was come
The Fury Revolution, child of fiend,
That leaped with groaning from the womb.
She came; her soul despair, her body death:
The systems shrivelled, as she drew her breath;
Dagons before her, headless, handless, fell;
The Cæsars' empire withered at her frown;
Then she allied her with the infidel,
And ancient right was smitten down.

3

Blind, self-tormenting, raging, fiend of Dante,
In force of furious scope, in vision scanty,
She struck at friends as foes, but most abhorred
The homes of freedom on the hills and seas;
Heroic Reding fell beneath her sword,
And England watched her on the breeze.
Republics round her she affiliated;
Then gave her chieftains kingdoms reinstated:
She came in anarchy, and she became
A despotism so dreadly centralized,
That later tyranny directs her aim
Backward: no more can be devised.
She came: La Vendée sank in mitraillades;
The Loire, the Seine, were sickened with noyades:
Then coil o'er coil, she stretched in dragon might,
Till half the continent was made her lair;
Her eagle plumes waved shadows black as night,
Her dragon whorls did crush and tear.
She came with thunderous march of vertebrate
Procession; fenced in iron, grinding weight
Of cannon; rank by rank of men who wound
O'er mountains, undulated over plains,
Successive, ceaseless; blood her mornings crowned,
Her dews of night were bloody rains.

4

Then battle grew a fiend, and monstrous Death
Exulted by sweet river and wild heath;
A shameless leper grinning at his sores;
He bathed in Danube, Scheldt, and Rhine, and Po,
He yelled with joy in burning Moscow's roars,
He rolled himself in Eylau's snow.
He sowed the dragon's teeth; the brood that sprung
He did conscribe, when they were over-young,
Into his hated service, forced to war
Ere truly they had left their mother earth:
Nature sufficed not; every natal star
Poured bloody runes upon its birth.
Then rose the nations maddened with their wrong:
The German brothers sang the people's song;
Then Hofer fell, and from his fall the brand
Passed westward, southward; in the Pyrenees
His Alpine echoes rang; the Spanish land
Rose like a lion from its knees.
Rose lion-like; but fell beneath the blows
Of myriad hunters; legions of fierce foes
Ravaged and slew from iron shore to shore:
Fell vengeful Saragossa—all in vain—
Gerona sank beside her: it was o'er;
The new Saguntum bled again.

5

Then, like the angel of the sea and land,
Rose England for the struggling right to stand,
Resolved that now her arms should flash anew
In battle on the land as on the main;
Resolved to efface the failures hitherto—
Toulon, Dunkirk, and Walcheren,—
And to outshine Corunna's setting sun.
And it was e'en thy hand, O Wellington,
Should raise our standard where it gleamed of yore
Upon the crest of wildest battle-wave:
An ancient right that triple cross upbore
The agonizing world to save.
And England owned herself in thee: her staid
And speechless courage into virtue made,
Her patience into faith, which only sees
The spreading splendours breaking through the clouds,
And builds up peace from thousand victories,
And glory from a million shrouds.
Oh, mighty worker, mighty watcher! who
Remained save thee, save thine what work to do?
Nelson was gone, and Pitt had followed him;
Their work was done, yet still the strife increased,
The agony, the rending limb by limb,
The cruel demon at his feast.

6

Footfall by footfall, line by line advanced
Thy liberation, thought on thought enhanced
Thy purpose; over armèd heads of chiefs
Till then unmatched, and launched like thunderbolts
By the gigantic grasper of king-fiefs—
Massenas, Marmonts, Soults—
Thy triumph lay, until the lord of all
With his full might met thine. His Satan fall
Made earth a heaven, and set thy glory o'er
Death's reach; thy glory to efface, the fount
Of time must backward to its sources pour,
The sum of years the heavens remount.

II. THE PENINSULAR WAR.

1. The Crisis of Europe.

Spain's insurrection sank; one city held
Her senate; and her armies strewed
Her swart sierras. “All shall be subdued,”
The despot cried, who ever yet had felled
The neck of opposition; who had spelled
The nations with a charm of blood.

7

Wherefore from Wagram, flushed and carnage-fed,
His legions pour; his iron horsemen tread
The Spanish flowers, his iron guards; the throng
Ends not; to where our little army waits,
Spain's latest hope, they close; as torrent strong
They close, they close; Massena leads their fates.
Ne'er yet had ebbed that battle-tide which rode
As one wide sea from Vistula
To Douro; rising, dancing in the ray
Of victor suns: and now, behold, it flowed
To meet the Atlantic with a wave as proud:
One rock alone opposed the way.
For it had risen year by year, and gained
In huge encroachments, till no more remained
A barrier of resistance south or east:
At Austerlitz and Friedland, Russia shrunk;
At Jena and at Wagram, Prussia ceased,
And Austria and all the centre sunk.
All silent now beneath those rolling waves,
Which covered all the wrecks of things,
And rolled alike o'er nations and their kings.
What whisper now within those glutted graves,
While half the world was made the despot's slaves,
And poured in tears its offerings?

8

What whisper, save that England now had sent
Her little army to the Continent?
What hope, except that to the Southern west,
The Northern west was sending tardy aid—
England to Spain? Ah, were it not a jest
To breathe such solace to the world dismayed?
Seemed it not bitter mockery to say
That the few thousands landed now
On Lusian shore, should dare to wait a foe
Of hundred thousands three, the tidal way
Of universal overflow to stay?
And yet in very truth 'twas so.
“The wave that brought the islanders shall be
Their sepulchre; we drive them to the sea:
The Emperor wills; no toil remains save this;
Then Rome's dominion, Rome's renown is ours;
Corunna re-enact, and storm Cadiz.”
Massena leads along his vaunting powers.
Right onward drives the gathered hurricane;
Its wreathing furious flakes invest
And scourge the land; as thunder on its crest
Sits Death; recede before it toward the main
Our gathered arms; the sun to set is fain;
Our sun seemed setting in the west.

9

So fierce the onset that it seemed as ne'er
Had Talavera been; a great despair
One moment palsied England:—“Home; allow
Free course to fate: return, the blow decline.”
Ah, then, my father, then no other brow
Was calm; no other hand prepared, save thine.
No other soul than thine perceived that there,
In the remote Peninsula,
The hope of Europe's disenthralment lay.
This was the consummation thou didst dare;
For this didst thou the greatest war prepare
That e'er did England's might array.
For this wast thou contented there to wield
The sword against each maréchal;
From Spain was Rome assailed by Hannibal;
And, when thy prophet hopes should be fulfilled,
Thence didst thou issue to the final field:
Cæsar returned on Rome from Gaul.

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2.

As he who limns a picture cannot trace
Each separate form in field or wood,
That dwells in distance broken and subdued,
And blended in the gradual purple haze;
He masses all in mighty rounds of space
And hues of magic brotherhood.
So I from out a hundred deeds must choose
Three which most mighty were; the rest confuse
In the deep distance of that atmosphere
Of time that doth embrace and shroud them all:
Let life heroic its own mystery wear,
And art be but a limner mystical.
For Torres Vedras turned the scale of fate
Inclining it to victory,
When England's sun seemed hasting to the sea;
Half Spain did Salamanca liberate;
Vittoria rolled the war through Gallia's gate:
The hero struck; his strokes were three.

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3. Torres Vedras.

Lo, that first miracle: the lines entraced
On leagues of Lusian shore, when we were chased
By fell Massena's power! Who wrought them so
In secret, suddenly to rise and quell
With thrice three hundred cannon mouths the foe,
To stay pursuit with might inflexible;
Like Grecian wall before the galleys reared,
Which even Hector stormed in vain;
Who wrought them so, demands the baffled train:
For lo, when swift the expected triumph neared,
Those triply ordered battlements appeared
Between the eagles and the main.
A month they lay there, hopeless to assail,
Loth to retreat. Then first that tide did fail
Which flooded half the world; it turned, they turned;
Fell back the surges of the iron sea,
Gleaming in hundred villas grimly burned,
Sounding in thousand cries of agony.
It was begun; the huge recoil which drew
Pursuit to Paris, where it stayed.
Europe revives: in German forest's shade
The Austrian, stiff in arms, doth strength renew
Against his giant foe; the Russian, too,
In awestruck ranks hath knelt and prayed.

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4. Salamanca.

Arose the twelfth year from the century:
Oh, Fate! two men were working diversely
In east and west, regardant each of other:
Napoleon's zenith—soon his star shall slope;
Wellington's dawn: one fate involves another;
One's glory gives the other's horoscope.
One crossed the Nieman, one the Aguada;
Invading empires both, they go
To Ciudad Rodrigo, to Smolensko—
To Borodino, to Vittoria—
To Moscow, to Madrid; our victor day
Napoleon saw through Russian snow.
From Torres Vedras they have turned; and, lo,
Pursuit usurps the place of overthrow;
Swift is our wingèd lion on his way:
Almeina sinks—no arts avert her fall;
Rodrigo sinks—can blood her doom repay?
Badajos sinks—can blood rebuild her wall?
Then rose the scene of war so strange and grand,
When Marmont came to stay the rout;
When side by side the mighty foes marched out
Toward the battle place which each had planned;
There front to front shall France and England stand,
And lift again the battle shout.

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Parallel rolled for leagues their columns, till
O'er Salamanca each his chosen hill
Had covered: there for many days they clung
Like thunder-clouds in scarce suspended strife;
Gerizim, Ebul; on those mountains hung
For Spain the curse or blessing, death or life.
Then came the mighty shock; who does not know
That Blenheim of our century;
That glorious battle turned to victory
By that heroic hand from blow to blow,
What time the mighty lion smote his foe
Upon the mountains deathfully?
And Marmont saw the greatest host that e'er
The Gaul had gathered, scattered into air
In one short hour; and vain were all his wiles,
In vain his lengthened columns doth he pour,
In vain reconcentrates his broken files;
The shattered eagle shall he lift no more.
Deluded slaves who served the tyrant's will,
Gay sons of France; the young, the bold,
Your glorious pride the bloody sods enfold;
Your mothers wait you where the orchards fill,
And all your hopes are scattered on that hill
Where dies a myriad doubly told.

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And the feigned king fled headlong from Madrid;
Back sank the eagles; half of Spain was rid
Of them for ever: ne'er they crossed again
Morena's armed sierra; Cadiz woke
From her environment, the iron chain
Forged in three years of war the captive broke.
More glorious sun for England never set:
Glorious the triumph which ye share,
Oh, warrior children, with your father there;
Oh, England's warrior children, ye who let
The Bengal noontide feed upon your sweat,
The Crimean frost your vitals wear.
Napoleon heard on Borodino's eve
The fatal news, refusing to believe;
And in the Kremlin to his ears there came,
Lone in the Kremlin with his destiny,
The Russian salvoes pouring glad acclaim,
“Madrid is occupied, half Spain is free.”

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5. Vittoria.

Havoc, the miserable child of War,
Murder, and Rapine, cursed crew,
Hispania bore you; on her breast ye drew
As lengthened furrows as did ever scar,
As smouldering ruin raised, as e'er did char
Earth's quaking bosom smitten through.
By many a rushing river to the sea
Hispania's corpses rolled; o'er hill and lea
Her vultures sailed for carrion; many a maid
And wife by savage soldiery defiled
Fell, olive-pale, with deathly lips that prayed
O'er murdered father, husband, lover, child.
Many a palace nodded to its fall;
Those Moorish gateways, arched so wide,
Opened on court-yards red from side to side
With glaring blood on marble floor and wall,
And heapèd dead; the cloister, turned to stall,
Held Death's wild horses from their ride.
But now the hour is come when they who guard
So well their own home-island from the sword,
Shall finish that for which they crossed the main,
And from the bloody spoiler rescue thee;
And, because England frees thee, thou, O Spain,
The first of all the nations shalt be free.

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From Salamanca count a year of toil,
A winter's respite; then anew
Begins that march which shall the foe subdue
Without one pause from all the Spanish soil:
Vittoria's march: disgorging blood and spoil
The shattered eagle homeward flew.
The double columns move: the Gaul they sweep
From Douro backward to the northern deep:
No more Valladolid shall lothe the state
Of Gaulish marshal insolent: no more
Biscayan ports their stores accumulate;
That sweep superb has freed the northern shore.
While from Madrid their central army fled:
Fled, rapine-gorged, the official crew
Which long had sucked a nation's life; they drew
An endless spoil along; their hope, they said,
Beside Bayonne to meet their crownèd head;
Ah, first they met the vengeance due.
Within thy soul, great chieftain, was designed
That wondrous march; as faithfully combined
By every column-leader under thee;
Each day's advance was measured, till at last
We came upon Vittoria suddenly,
Where lay their cumbered army, swollen and vast.

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Vittoria, thou whose very name doth sound
Of victory, where vengeance just
Fell on those sons of murder and of lust,
Where one more righteous stroke to death did wound
A kingly hydra-head, where fell discrowned
King Joseph 'neath the final thrust!
O'er bridge and hill our legions burst their way;
The skirmish changed to battle; battle's bray
Died in disastrous carnage, foulest rout,
While melted all away the unwieldy host;
And far arose one agonizing shout,
One Beresina-wail when all was lost.
For all was lost; their relics strewed the plain;
Five years of pillage in a day
Lost; all the archives of that monstrous sway
Lost; and their latest army left in Spain
Lost, lost; but never lost the death and pain,
The bleeding witnesses who pray.
The hero struck; his strokes were three; the third
Through Europe sounded; doubting Austria heard,
Flung back the treacherous hand he offered her,
The giant evil-doer in his need:
“Join, Russians, join around his bristling lair,
Let Germany be freed as Spain is freed.”

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Farewell to Spain, ye spoilers, ye who laved
In blood your footsteps o'er her plains;
Your day is done, your guilt alone remains.
The vulture, not the eagle, see, hath waved
His vans among the mountains; he had craved
A draught that drops from his own veins.

6.

They fled, close followed, to the Pyrenees,
The strife through all the winter did not cease;
Fell San Sebastian, Pampeluna fell,
Another Frankish rout saw Roncesvalles;
The Bidassoa, the Nive, and the Nivelle
In vain oppose swift stream and bristling wall.
Farewell to Spain; farewell the lurid waste
Of desert tracked by muleteer,
O'er which the dark sierra ridges rear
Their bastions; farewell ancient cities placed
In paradises, old Alhambras chased
With Saracenic scroll severe.
Through those dark Pyrenean glens did crawl
Those matchless foes; no wintry storms appal;

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Like wrestling snakes they wound from rock to rock;
Now, Gallia, feel the war-dogs thou didst loose:
In vain is Orthe's bloody battle shock,
In vain the volleying ridges of Toulouse.
And there the struggle ended; for, from east
And north the nations thronging on
Had pressed the giant despot from his throne:
But first 'midst all was England's flag released
To gales of France, and vengeance first did feast
Those who had fought by Wellington.

7.

Farewell to Spain for those who fought the fight,
The iron men who showed the English might,
Trained by thine eye and fashioned by thy skill
To be thy perfect instrument of war,
To march, to fight, untired, invincible;
“No army like the old Peninsular.”
No chiefs like that renownèd school of men
Who wrought thy bidding, bore with thee
A worthy portion—Picton, Ponsonby,
Hill, Crawford, Graham, Beresford; in ken
As eagles, lion-like in daring when
The battle rolled in mystery.

20

The bones of forty thousand Englishmen
Mix with the dusts of Spain; thy freedom then,
Hispania, cost so much: they toiled, traversed,
Marched, counter-marched, and fought and bled and died,
With him who saw the last from doubtful first,
And bore them through those empire-lists so wide.
No hero therefore like the man who gained
His glory as the common good;
The elder brother of the men who stood
Beside him, not a demi-god sustained
On blinded adulation; who remained
Unstaggered both by gold and blood.
From Spanish brides who wept upon the shore
The ordered transports all that army bore;
Fond creatures who had marched and camped with them
Long years; whom never may they see again.
They go; great England with her diadem
Leans o'er the purple seas: Farewell to Spain.
Yet is their work unended: lo, once more
Swoons Europe in the very smile
Of new-born peace—again the eagles soar,
Again the life-consuming cannon roar,
And horror-struck despair comes down; the while
The Continent implores the Isle.

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III. WATERLOO.

1.

Came down on Gallia, Père la Violette:
His veterans named him so, and sternly set
His martial blazon on their breasts again;
Long had they mourned his absence with the pain
Of devotees, their idol cast in shade;
They bore him on their shields, while fled dismayed
Legitimacy, and the realm was his.
The smile was withered on the lips of peace;
The congress of the kings, that met
To arbitrate on crowns, was scattered far
By the fierce look of war.
Nor wholly undeserved their overset,
For golden languor, pleasure, vulgar thought,
Hollow ambition, had invaded them;
And that pacification ill was wrought
Which sunk the right below the diadem,
And yielded Poland to the Czar.

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Napoleon, e'en in that eleventh hour
Had thy vast soul recalled its godlike power
To utter freedom to the world, and be,
What God designs in all, and so designed in thee—
Yet one more issue to infinity—
Then were thy doom a thing of woe; but now
The light of truth had left thy brow,
The early hope which 'neath Italian skies
To thee drew wistful eyes,
When thy inspirèd face uplifted glowed
In each victorious sunset on thy road
Of blameless battle for thy country fought,
Not for thine empire; big with thought,
Pathetic, in the passion of its youth
Begetting noble truth.
Now sensual ambition, mastering all,
Had made that soul a thrall;
And all thy thoughts were faded and grown old,
Not leading progress to the goal of gold;
And he who wrought thine overthrow,
Leading the men who laboured to restore
The limitations of the age before,
He thy conqueror, he thy foe,
Was heaven's own champion for the rights of man.
Thine eagle fell behind; his lion led the van.

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2.

For all the earth, grown weary, sick, distressed
With bloody toil, now in the pause of rest
Beheld the work of war again begin,
The scourge of God returned. Long since akin
To war all hearts had grown; men had been born
Through whose whole life the earth had never worn
The look of peace; a generation bred
In battle, wrack, and flame, and nourished
With such like horrors into deadly mood:
And these in that first respite of their blood
Must clutch to them their iron arms again,
Resume their marches, slaughter, and be slain.
Loud-shouting war is here once more; loud war
Roars for more prey; the cannon-bearing car
Shall thunder through the land, career, and spread
Its nitrous vapours o'er the gory bed
Of battle, as the flying thunder wrack
Whirls through the space of heaven; the dreadful track
Of squadron rivers through battalion fields
Once more their eyes shall mark; the Fury yields
No hope, no change save that from life to death.
So be it, answered they, with quiet breath;
And took once more their places in the strife
Hopeless and careless; fate had set their life
This one mere task; their children would come next,
It was begun again. Thus unperplexed

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The Antichrist they saw returned, and gave
Themselves to feed the iron-surging wave
That now was setting toward the Gallic shore
From Belgium to the Czar, resigned once more
To meet encroaching Fate with tranquil phlegm:
Scythe-stroke by scythe-stroke Death might gather them,
And year by year; it was begun once more.

3.

Not so; no gradual swirl
Of closing waves the Pagod down did hurl,
But one great battle-shock
O'erthrew the towering rock;
The mighty deed which all the world reprieved
One arm alone in one great hour achieved.

4.

There lies a plain in Belgic land beside
War's nursling, Brussels; heavy fields divide
Two gentle slopes that ridge the vale between,
And on each flank a forest wraps the scene.
'Tis holy ground; it is the grave of war;
'Tis yearly hallowed; children come from far,
And weep upon the consecrated sod
Such tears as follow blood; 'tis gently trod

25

By all the great with awfulness; and there
The skies more solemn roll, such sepulchre
Rises to meet them; there the cloud and sun
Have stranger issues, and the whitening moon
More mutely melancholy muses there;
For shrouding terror still enwraps the lair
Of such a deed: this grandeur is for us,
There stands the lion on our tumulus.
And there are laid in sleep, as day is done
(Ligny was lost, and Quatre Bras was won),
Two mighty hosts; the rain-cloud o'er them broods,
And night falls on them; those dark solitudes
Are full of slumberous life; the watch-fires glare
On readied cannon through the foggy air.
Death waits the morning in these lists prepared;
Here meet at last the champions who have shared
The world's renown between them—Europe's scourge,
Spain's liberator; both of them shall merge
All other opposition in this fate:
Round each of them their paladins await,
Those iron souls whom they to arms had trained;
And their tired armies sleep; by sleep unchained
To vision each the other's mighty deeds.
The fateful morning breaks; the dark recedes,
The camp fires die; the expectant shudder runs
Through moveless ranks; the bravest warrior shuns
The dreadful moment ere the work begin.
Oh, countryment, I tell you, lose or win,

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That such another moment never shook
Time's hour-glass; never such another look
Of doubtful Mars so horrent, ere it booms,
The iron bell of battle; ere the drums
Throb, and the fifes shrill, and exultantly
The flame of battle lights the soldier's eye.
Yet tender were your hearts, my countrymen,
As was your courage dauntless. Who can pen
With undimmed eye that scene before the fray,
When ye embraced as brothers, with the bray
Of death within your ears, and kissed, and gave
Last words and gifts for those beyond the wave,
If he survived who took them: tender, true,
Loyal; how he would dare full well ye knew,
Who led your ranks, and well ye knew the foe.
How then stood England now let England know;
How stood our fathers then, when death and fame
Made covenant within the battle flame;
How stood they in the whirlwind of that fight.
They stood unmoved, when on the adverse height
The great Opposer gathered in his hands
Thunder and cloud, its shade; made firm the bands
Of massive columns ordered for attack,
And in his art, as masking these, made slack
His swarms of skirmishers; as great was he,
Be it not doubted, in his strategy,
As ever upon Austrian battle-plain:
Nor e'er did army labour to sustain

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Its old renown as the vast host he led:
Filled were its ranks with traitors perjurèd,
Who had for him forsworn their lawful king;
With desperate gamblers, who their all did fling
With his great cast for empire: needs must they
In this prodigious hazard fiercely play,
Now, as with clashing music, and the storm
Of louder shouts, the battle line they form
In splendid show, as if the very sight
Of their bold marshalling with dread should smite.
No clashing music led our fathers on;
Less splendidly in arms their cohorts shone.
They stood when first the opened cannonade
Lifted death's shroud to heaven from field and glade;
They stood when in a gloom of fire the bolts
Whole ranks in pieces dashed; the soul revolts
To watch their patient ranks, still formed anew
As death dissolves them: fewer stand the few.
They stood, they knelt, upon the bloody sod,
Lifting the prayer of battle unto God:
Each square so thinning as the day wore on
Was filled with martyrs who by blood atone
Sad earth with heaven. Others have dared to die,
In headlong charge; others as steadfastly
Have stood behind entrenchment and stone wall:
They on the naked earth dared stand and fall,
Gathered in islet squares so small and few.
They stood, while all the daylong battle through

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Each act of war upon their front was tried:
While dragon-breathèd guns sent thick and wide
Their furious tempest, doubling stroke on stroke;
While came assailing columns through the smoke
Weighty and vast, in densest order pressed,
And crushing forward up the hilly crest;
While the mailed horsemen, riding thousands strong
In constant onset poured the vale along;
Riding in thousands, never prouder flower
Of chivalry in battle-bed did bower;
Striving by steel, by force, by weight, to hew
Their passage through those islet squares so few.
For all our centre was one tossing sea
Of plumèd horsemen, and all furiously
For three long hours the battle spray arose
Where round the scarce-seen squares the riders close:
The battle glory there, the yellow drift,
The steel-blue sea of weapons, wildly swift,
Its long and deadly billows doth outpour;
So that he said, who ruled that desperate hour,
That the defence full soon must buried be
In ruin; sore amazed was he to see
The inundating charges still subside,
And still the rocks emerge from out the dying tide.
They stood while all the daylong battle raged
In such a wise; those two grand peers engaged
Each art of war, and still Napoleon gained
No mastery, though his army's blood had rained;

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For each assailing column had been rent,
Those flooding charges all were vainly spent.
There came with eve a lull; each furious gun
A moment intermitted, as the sun
Went sadly westward; will he leave the fight
Ere upon total ruin sink the night?
Not so; too savagely the battle lowers:
The Guards remain, the latest of his powers,
The breakers of resistance, they who tamed
The Russian and the German, and were named
The proudest soldiers in that warrior day;
The grand reserve that still inclined the fray,
When all was desperate; that still was cast
A thunderbolt the dreadest and the last;
The Guards; he cannot fly while these remain.
They stood—our fathers—when the bloody plain
Grew black with that vast phalanx; still they stood,
As calm as he who ruled their attitude,
As awfully reserved; and, lo, their foes
Are midway now the valley, now they close,
And mount the slope with England's battle lined;
Serried, enormous, black, they come; the wind
Bears upward their stern shouting; bristling arms
And flashing step, they come. The deep alarms
Of our concentric fire proclaims how high
The danger; each cleared volley shows more nigh;
Though death consumes the mighty column's head,
They come, and still with dauntless ranks they thread

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The dreadful open where the volleys meet,
And make one street of fire, with death to choke that street.
Still they re-form beyond it, grim and stern—
Still recommence their march; they almost turn
Our hill-crest; they are here! Behold them now,
Behold the pallid frowning of their brow
Beneath the giant bearskin shaking o'er it;
The waving eagle see; 'tis they who bore it
Through Austerlitz and Jena, every breast
Crossed with the belt where honour's star doth rest.
Their graspèd bayonets see; behold them here.
They paused an instant, as in wondering fear:
Is opposition dead? They do but see
An empty space before them. Can it be
That England's line is pierced, the battle done?
Who knows not how that moment great was won?
How at our captain's voice from covert sprung
Our fathers, they who all the day had clung
To that contested hill; how, overborne
By one fierce charge, struggling, confounded, torn,
The mighty hostile column paused at last,
Was huddled as a cloud by sudden blast,
And fled? who knows not in a moment more
How all was lost? Our shouting legions pour
Down that all-bloody slope which they had held.
Came Prussia from the wood with guns that knelled

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Vengeance, and pounded into utter rout
Into the deepening night they stagger out:
All lost, Napoleon turned his rein, and fled.
Yet who is victor here? Behold the dead
Rolled on the clammy sod; the victor see—
Death, Death! his form arises solemnly
In that wide reek that labours into air,
As leaves the rout the scene of their despair;
Victors and vanquished leave it, Death remains.
His sulphurous shroud floats from the battle plains,
And in it, thinning toward the darkened stars,
His face smiles downward; many dropping scars
And bloody locks o'erhang its features vast;
Gloating and swollen it dissolved and passed.
Falls weeping night; the smoke of Huguemont
Grows lurid in the dark; then wildly haunt
The hideous scene white flames that slowly creep,
By fearful women borne, from heap to heap.
Some come with knives to butcher them that cry,
Some with death-shriek to faint on them that die.
Far range the hills of death; the weakly moon
Rains ashen light upon the ruin strewn:
The dreadful mounds of relics of the slain,
The headlong horses tumbled down amain,
The limbs that seem to struggle yet, the gleam
On pallid forms, the black mysterious stream
That never came from heaven: there, as by fits
The light falls on them, one in fierceness knits

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His unrelenting brows; some clench their hands
And almost strike again with moveless brands;
Some smile like infants; some their glassy eyes
Appealing lift for ever to the skies:
Ah, Death, thou hast reservèd these to be
Thy true spectators more than those who see.
Put out the torches, ere they fade away
In the cold dawning of another day.
This the last battle; this, O fate! thy due;
Thy victory this, O grave! thy cost, O Waterloo!

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IV. PEACE.

From that red hour sprang forty years of peace,
While public wrongs diminish, rights increase:
England from loyalty to liberty
Grows up the marvel which the nations praise,
The country of the men who would be free,
Yet lose no thought of ancient days.
And thou wast ever with us, thy grey head,
O father, known by all, and reverenced;
And thy sage voice at council ever heard,
O Nestor; not with ended war did cease
Thy glory, who didst gain us by thy sword,
Then teach us how to use, our peace.
The years went by still happier, until
Less frequently the old man's face did fill
The eyes that loved it, and less frequent grew
His step in courts: he died like ripened shock:
Not so had died the crushed at Waterloo,
Despot and anarch, on his rock.

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We buried him with such a mourning voice
Of our whole state, as made death's regal toys
For once no mockery: the people stared
And wept upon the pageant as it passed;
His withered veterans that last triumph shared,
He led them still unto the last.
We buried him beside the mighty one
Who only watched his glory 'neath the sun,
The Duke of armies by the seaman great;
His glory is like Albion's; 'tis renewed
The same from age to age; its royal seat
On love and strength and fortitude.
His life like England's story—root and fruit—
One growth in many changes; fixed pursuit
Of grandest, widest, difficultest things:
One in diversity—a track of light,
A stream, among the sacred trees that springs,
And issues in the infinite.