University of Virginia Library

Wake, Muses, wake; Oh, sacred Nine, arise,
Ye pow'rs celestial of the starry skies,
Who love to sing the hard contested-fight,
Whom tales of war and martial deeds delight:
Leave, leave Parnasus' double cloud-topt brow,
O ye whom all adore, to whom all bow:
To me your vot'ry proffer heav'nly fire,
Afford your succour, and my mind inspire,
To sing the contest that eternal fame
And lasting honour gave Britannia's name;
Gave her bold Sons the meed of just renown,
A wreath of laurel—an unfading crown!

And Thou, O Phœbus, clement God of day!
Thy aid impart, assist benign my lay;
String Thou my lyre with heav'nly art to tell,
How Gallia's base usurping tyrant fell:
Who girt with war, and fierce in hostile arms,
Affrighted Europe shook with dire alarms:
Who, when ambition prompted to obtain
The fertile realms of far-extending Spain,
Laid waste the fields with grassy verdure fair,
The oxens labour, and the rustics care.
Still seeking slaughter, his inhuman mind,
Scourge of the world! and foe to all mankind!
With human gore defil'd the reeking plain,
The crimson Earth with num'rous heaps of slain:
Who led his daring and ferocious bands,
Too sure of conquest, into distant lands,
Where winter reigns, and where eternal snows
Block up the pass, and e'en an host oppose;
Where never Phœbus darts his sunny rays,
And all his beauties to the world displays,
Who cheers the verdant fields with genial heat,
Fruitful with corn, and rich with plenteous wheat.
But hides in mists his glitt'ring head, and shrouds
His radiant glories in a veil of clouds;
Germania's regions sent to heav'n from far
The clang of arms, the deep-ton'd noise of war:
Reeking with gore, unable to withstand
Th' impetuous force of his all-conqu'ring hand,
Unhappy Austria strove, but strove in vain,
His lawless force with valour to restrain:
The rapid Po with sanguine hue was dy'd,
And rolled its waters in a purple tide:
The swelling Ister foamed with warrior's blood,
And stain'd the Euxine with a crimson flood.
But now resume, kind Muse, thy former song,
No more the tale of distant woes prolong:
Tell thou the contest, fierce with mortal strife,
Which, bought though dearly by so many a life
By the brave victors yet, the Gallic crown
Snatch'd from th' usurper, threw the tyrant down,
Dash'd the bright sceptre from his blood-stain'd hand,
And hurl'd him guilty from his native land.
Far from the toils and labours of the war,
The British host, forgotten every care,
In joyous pleasure passed the festive day,
And sweetly lull'd the tedious hours away:
The skilful minstrels all their art employ,
The circling dance fills every heart with joy,
Whilst well-strung harps resound through spacious halls,
And tuneful clamour fills re-echoing walls.
Alas! how little that gay Troop foresaw,
The dreadful issue of th' approaching war!
Far from the place the prince of battles fled,
Who loads the reeking plain with heaps of dead:
Thy sovereign sway was there, O Bacchus, thine,
Thine, joyful Bacchus, dy'd with ruddy wine.
But why hath mirth to terror given place?
Why sits that paleness upon every face?
The martial trumpet's sound each heart appals,
In deep-ton'd notes, to arms! it loudly calls.
Th' astonish'd bands the reason quickly know;
Th' impending danger, and th' approaching foe:
Napoleon comes! nor comes with tame intent,
On war and slaughter all his thoughts are bent:
And now advancing leads the Gallic powers
To lay in dust the city's cloud-capt towers.
Now every warrior arms without delay,
For danger brooks not e'en the slightest stay;
Eager to rush amidst the battle's rage,
The haughty foes impatient to engage,
With joyful mind the bugle shrill he hears,
The warlike clarion with enraptur'd ears.
Now all depart amidst the sable night,
In haste repairing to the fields of fight;
Whilst the stern voices of the martial crowd
Disturb the air with clamour hoarse and loud;
Whilst clatt'ring steeds the echoing pavement beat,
And various noise resounds through every street.
When first Aurora left her early bed,
Tinging th' horizon with a crimson red,
And yok'd the coursers unto Phœbus' car,
Burnish'd with gold refulgent from afar,
The bloody fight, the desperate strife began,
Describ'd by no such feeble wretch as man;
Not if he had ten mouths, or brazen lungs,
A voice of iron, or a thousand tongues;
Not e'en if Phœbus should his verse inspire,
And to his mind should give poetic fire.
Now France and England, both with hostile rage,
Rush to the charge, a dire contention wage:
Fierce was the onset, Oh! could any tell
How many thousands on that instant fell;
Fell, bravely fighting, and with bodies slain,
And mingled carnage, filled the gore-dy'd plain!
Each warrior draws his falchion from the sheath,
Confronts the danger in the jaws of death;
Seeks to acquire a conq'ring hero's name,
Or, nobly falling, gain immortal fame.
The spurs are hidden in the charger's flanks;
He rushes onward to th' embattled ranks,
Breaks through impetuous, though e'en hosts oppose,
The serried phalanx and ten thousand foes;
Bears through the deadly fray his urging lord,
Nor fears beholding every lance and sword:
But at the scene his joy appears confest;
With martial ardour pants his noble breast;
Snorting he rears, and with an active bound,
Springs o'er the plain, and paws the trembling ground;
Whilst from his nostrils, fierce with gen'rous ire,
He pours forth clouds of all-terrific fire.
In circles whirl'd, the flashing sabres shone:
The glitt'ring falchions sparkled in the sun:
The clamour loud disturbs th' affrighted air,
The clash of arms, the dreadful din of war:
Whilst sanguine Mars his arms exulting wields,
And pours a deluge o'er the reeking fields.
Nought midst the direful scene of death is heard,
But to their pitch the victors' voices rear'd,
Lamenting shrieks, the bugle's brazen throat,
The martial trumpet's war-denouncing note,
The groans of those who, pass'd neglected by,
With wounds disabled, unassisted lie.
His hideous form here Death gigantic rears,
And every horror murder-clad appears:
The fuming plain grows red with crimson dew,
The fields defiling with a purple hue.
Bellona now each chieftain's breast incites:
With double ardour every warrior fights:
Around her hair, in snaky tresses curl'd,
And Gorgon's head, her direful scourge she whirl'd;
Her horrid arms a bloody torrent pour;
Her yet warm jav'lin reeks with human gore.
The vanquish'd dies, who death through shame desires;
The victor's self in vict'ry's arms expires!
The hero falls who danger, death defies;
Nor 'scapes the dastard, who destruction flies;
E'en thousands perish, but with glory crown'd,
In death still honour'd, still in death renown'd.
Mix'd with their lords, who draw their parting breath,
Press'd with the cold the icy hand of death,
The coursers lie; who once, with gen'rous might
Broke the thick legions, and the ranks of fight,
Convey'd their riders through the deadly war,
And bore them off triumphant from afar.
As fall the flow'rs with saffron colours gay,
Which smile, adorn'd with all the gifts of May,
When the hard rustic at his lord's command
Lays waste the meadows with unsparing hand,
Arm'd with the scythe, he lays at every blow,
Their blooming beauty, and their fragrance low:
So perish those, whom death in youth's first bloom,
Cut off untimely with an early doom:
Death, which destroys the youths with vigour blest,
And sends the aged to eternal rest.

From danger far, th' usurping wretch descries
The deathful contest with observing eyes:
Sure of success, with joyful mind he stands,
And urges on to fight his drooping bands:
“On, my brave troops, against the British host,
They cannot stand, their chiefs, their leaders, lost:
Spare none, not those who fainting with a wound,
O'erthrown, disabled, bite the bloody ground:
Upon them charge: your valour, friends, display,
And win the glorious hard-contested day:
Yon troops o'erwhelm, who have my force withstood,
And drench'd their weapons in my bravests' blood.”
Thus speaks the Tyrant, and with savage joy
The Gauls incites to slaughter, kill, destroy.
Fierce at the word, they rush to desp'rate fight;
And thousands sink to everlasting night.

But hark! what troubled clamour rends the skies?
What distant gleam is that which meets the eyes?
What glittering arms are those, that through the shade
Resplendent shine, what banners those display'd?
Yon hostile flags no friend approaching show,
'Tis Blucher's standard—'tis the coming foe:
That word knells death in every Frenchman's ears,
Napoleon listens, and Napoleon fears.
With sudden fears now stand the Gauls possest,
A thrilling panic strikes their trembling breast,
Nor longer can their weak and yielding band
The pressing foe with equal force withstand;
With trembling step their fear-struck host withdrew,
Receding back away their arms they threw.
Then, then, at last, Oh base unseemly sight!
They turn their backs to seek disgraceful flight!
He 'midst the first, to save his wretched life,
Spurr'd swift his courser from the desp'rate strife:
Yes He, who lately thousands could command,
Who rul'd, the sov'reign prince of Gallia's land;
Whose brow adorn'd the crown imperial grac'd,
And in whose hands the sceptre bright was plac'd;
Now from that summit by ambition thrown,
Is, abject, forc'd to sue for life alone.

Thus falls the man, whom fortune's angry frown,
Though favour'd once, now cast rejected down:
Whose streaming standards far resplendent shone,
In gilded conquest o'er Vienna's town:
Who, though by hosts oppos'd, triumphant bore
His conq'ring arms to Scythia's dreary shore,
Whilst flaming Moscow, once for wealth renown'd,
Laid one wide ruin on the smoaking ground.
His haughty summons fear-struck Rome obey'd,
Wide op'd her gates, her inmost streets display'd,
When Jove's proud bird's own semblance tow'r'd on high,
And mock'd the splendour of th' effulgent sky:
When his stern hand the Pontiff's self secur'd,
Amidst a dungeon's noisome depths immur'd.
This once was so—his once illustrious name
Emblazon'd glory crown'd with martial fame!
And now—his transient course of vict'ry run,
At length the thread of all his pow'r is spun!
By hostile arms, by adverse fate o'erthrown,
He wretched vents his unavailing moan:
For ever doom'd to quit his native shore,
A fallen captive 'midst th' Atlantic roar:
There pierc'd by conscience's resistless dart,
His crimes abhorring with repentant heart,
There may he curse that dire destructive hand,
Which desolation spread through Europe's land;
And bending, prostrate, there be taught to know
'Twas heaven's dire wrath that laid his glory low!
With humbled awe th' Almighty King implore;
With eyes uplifted pray to sin no more;
Avert his anger with repentance late;
And shun the danger of impending fate.