 | The Heroes of Waterloo |  |
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THE HEROES OF WATERLOO.
AN ODE.
I
Sweet are evening's cooling dews,And sweet the breeze on summer plain,
And sweet the rainbow's glorious hues,
When the blithe sun looks out through rain;
But sweeter to the patriot's ear
To drink the notes of Victory,
That, thrilling like a storm the air,
Tell half the nations they are free.
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II
Oh! they may grudge, unknown to praise,Whose joys are quiet joys alone,
Whose days have all been shiny days,
Whose nights like summer nights have flown;
Oh! they may grudge the joy of flame,
The swell, the tumult of the soul,
That revels through the patriot's frame,
And makes its currents swifter roll!
III
There is no hour of pride like this,That meets us on our thorny road!
It is, as if an age of bliss
In one brief blaze concentrate glow'd:
It is the sum of earthly weal,
The whole that human hearts can bear;
Which only souls of fire can feel,
Which only danger can prepare.
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IV
Yet, Albion! yet thy cheek is wet!For they are fall'n who held thee dear:
Thou wouldst not sorrow o'er defeat—
Such fame alone can wake thy tear!
'Midst Triumph's bright and sunny noon
The drops of kindred sorrow flow:
It were too high, too pure a boon,
Were such a good unmix'd with woe!
V
In vain to them the torches play,In vain the banner spreads its fold,
The feast of triumph is not gay,
The song of fame falls dull and cold.
The hearts that made their good below,
Their earthly suns, are set in night;
And all that glory can bestow
Is but the moon's unwarming light!
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VI
This is no hour of thoughtless mirth—No common tale of battle fought:
The memory of such perish'd worth
Makes ev'n delight an awful thought—
A feeling like the sun of even,
A sober, still, and temper'd joy:
The rolling world may pass, ere Heav'n
Sends such a good, with such alloy!
VII
Yes, ye may weep! The joys of youth,The social ring, the festive hour,
The consort's smile of love and truth,
The friend's embrace, are theirs no more.
Perchance some weight of woe hath bent
Yourhearts, which their kind care had cheer'd:
Perchance propitious Fate hath sent
Some good, which they might well have shared.
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VIII
Yet mourn not o'er the souls ye love!Ye weep for those who cannot weep:
The storms that vex our world above
Pass them, like rain when mortals sleep:
The death of hope, misfortune's chill,
And social pleasure waned and fled,
And all the tale of human ill—
What are ye to the senseless dead?
IX
Shout, Albion, for thy wreath of years!Thy sun is old, yet cannot set:
Thine oak hath brav'd Time's smiles and tears,
And all its leaves are blooming yet:
Undimm'd by age, unquench'd by ill,
Thy nerves are strong, thy spirit bold;
Like thy own sea, that sparkles still
Majestic, as when first it roll'd!
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X
The breeze that waved thy banner redOn Acre's height, on Maida's plain,
On wild Busaco's spire-crown'd head,
On Scandinavia's tideless main,
That breeze hath proudly fann'd its fold
Above a broader, redder field,
Where thy Deliverer wav'd of old
The terrors of his lion-shield .
XI
When hope was lost, and courage dead,And all was night, and all was sleep,
Thy star its quenchless lustre shed,
Like a lone beacon on the deep,
Like the red line of western light
That lingers when the sun is set,
That rescues half the heavens from night,
And tells it shall be morning yet.
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XII
From realms where ne'er the Lord of lightHis flag of orient gold unfurl'd,
When fur-clad legions swarm'd to fight,
The champions of a ruin'd world;
When Lutzen blush'd again with death,
When Leipsic's thousand banners rose,
Thy voice sent forth the signal-breath
That rous'd them from their stern repose!
XIII
For thou wert strong in heart—thy sonShrunk not from ill's surrounding shade;
To him the sun still glorious shone,
Hope's strengthening breeze still round him play'd:
Through desolation's fearful scene,
Through doubt, through sorrow, and through toil,
His spirit still was young and green,
Like palm-grove 'midst th' Arabian soil.
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XIV
'Twas like the love, that burns unseenThrough time, and absence, and decay,
That pleasure can but make more keen,
And grief but give a firmer sway:
'Twas like the hope, that soars sublime
O'er toils slow chill, o'er danger's blast;
That mocks the weakening hand of time,
And eyes its pole-star to the last.
XV
Oh, Wellesley! on thy conquering swordTheir tears the rescu'd nations shed;
The thanks of thousand hearts are poured
Around thy many-laurell'd head:
Thou art a boon to mortals given,
A minister of God on high;
And by thy voice the Lord of Heaven
Speaks to his children Liberty!
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XVI
Thy country's last and brightest star,Veteran in fame, though not in days,
He led thee forth from climes afar,
Where morning loves to pour her blaze:
Six years the ruddy war-sun rose
On his own lands of evening rest,
While thou didst rescue from her foes
The blood-bought freedom of the West.
XVII
Rous'd from his nest by battle-criesPyrene's eagle screaming fled,
Thy standard wav'd in Gascon skies,
It glitter'd on Toulouse's head:
It seem'd that Glory then might close
Her eagle-wing, and check her flight;
But Fate hath wak'd her from repose,
And wing'd her to a nobler height!
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XVIII
The strength of hope, the flush of youth,The pride of ancient victory,
The soul of liberty and truth,
The heart that gave itself to thee,
These were thy arms—before them driven
The conquerors of the nations fled,
And blest was he, who gave to Heaven
His latest sigh on such a bed.
XIX
And is thy race of glory run,Thou chieftain of the Land of Fame ?
Her white peaks ne'er, since time begun,
Sent forth a purer, nobler name!
And though thy faithful bosom bleed,
While Britain lives, thou shalt not die;
'Tis thine through years unborn to lead,
And conquer in thy memory!
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XX
Heroic spirits, fare ye well,Who in your country's battles died!
For you the maiden's sorrows swell,
Pale grows the hero's cheek of pride.
The notes of praise in vain may flow,
They cannot sooth the mourner's soul,
They cannot check the gush of woe
That hears not—brooks not of controul!
XXI
'Tis like the uncheering smile of thoseWho lov'd us once, but love not now;
That, like the moon upon the snows,
Looks bright, and mocks our chill below!
It is as o'er the desert soil
The coffee-grove its odours throws;
They sooth, perchance, the trav'ller's toil—
But cannot guide him to his close!
| The Heroes of Waterloo | |