From clime to clime, where'er war's trumpets sound, The wanderer went; yet Caledonia! still Thine was his thought in march and tented ground; He dreamed 'mid Alpine cliffs of Athole's hill, And heard in Ebro's roar his Lyndoch's lovely rill.
XVII.
O hero of a race renowned of old, Whose war-cry oft has waked the battle-swell, Since first distinguished in the onset bold, Wild sounding when the Roman rampart fell!
By Wallace' side it rung the Southron's knell, Alderne, Kilsythe, and Tibber owned its fame, Tummell's rude pass can of its terrors tell, But ne'er from prouder field arose the name Than when wild Ronda learned the conquering shout of GRAEME!
XVIII.
But all too long, through seas unknown and dark, (With Spenser's parable I close my tale,) By shoal and rock hath steered my venturous bark, And landward now I drive before the gale.
And now the blue and distant shore I hail, And nearer now I see the port expand, And now I gladly furl my weary sail, And, as the prow light touches on the strand, I strike my red-cross flag and bind my skiff to land.
THE FIELD OF WATERLOO.
I.
Fair Brussels, thou art far behind, Though, lingering on the morning wind, We yet may hear the hour Pealed over orchard and canal, With voice prolonged and measured fall, From proud St. Michael's tower; Thy wood, dark Soignies, holds us now, Where the tall beeches' glossy bough For many a league around, With birch and darksome oak between, Spreads deep and far a pathless screen, Of tangled forest ground.
Stems planted close by stems defy The adventurous foot--the curious eye For access seeks in vain; And the brown tapestry of leaves, Strewed on the blighted ground, receives Nor sun, nor air, nor rain.
No opening glade dawns on our way, No streamlet, glancing to the ray, Our woodland path has crossed; And the straight causeway which we tread Prolongs a line of dull arcade, Unvarying through the unvaried shade Until in distance lost.
II.
A brighter, livelier scene succeeds; In groups the scattering wood recedes, Hedge-rows, and huts, and sunny meads, And corn-fields glance between; The peasant, at his labour blithe, Plies the hooked staff and shortened scythe:- But when these ears were green, Placed close within destruction's scope, Full little was that rustic's hope Their ripening to have seen!
And, lo, a hamlet and its fane:- Let not the gazer with disdain Their architecture view; For yonder rude ungraceful shrine, And disproportioned spire, are thine, Immortal WATERLOO!
III.
Fear not the heat, though full and high The sun has scorched the autumn sky, And scarce a forest straggler now To shade us spreads a greenwood bough; These fields have seen a hotter day Than e'er was fired by sunny ray, Yet one mile on--yon shattered hedge Crests the soft hill whose long smooth ridge Looks on the field below, And sinks so gently on the dale That not the folds of Beauty's veil In easier curves can flow.
Brief space from thence, the ground again Ascending slowly from the plain Forms an opposing screen, Which, with its crest of upland ground, Shuts the horizon all around.
The softened vale between Slopes smooth and fair for courser's tread; Not the most timid maid need dread To give her snow-white palfrey head On that wide stubble-ground; Nor wood, nor tree, nor bush are there, Her course to intercept or scare, Nor fosse nor fence are found, Save where, from out her shattered bowers, Rise Hougomont's dismantled towers.
IV.
Now, see'st thou aught in this lone scene Can tell of that which late hath been? - A stranger might reply, "The bare extent of stubble-plain Seems lately lightened of its grain; And yonder sable tracks remain Marks of the peasant's ponderous wain, When harvest-home was nigh.
On these broad spots of trampled ground, Perchance the rustics danced such round As Teniers loved to draw; And where the earth seems scorched by flame, To dress the homely feast they came, And toiled the kerchiefed village dame Around her fire of straw."
V.
So deem'st thou--so each mortal deems, Of that which is from that which seems:- But other harvest here Than that which peasant's scythe demands, Was gathered in by sterner hands, With bayonet, blade, and spear.
No vulgar crop was theirs to reap, No stinted harvest thin and cheap!
Heroes before each fatal sweep Fell thick as ripened grain; And ere the darkening of the day, Piled high as autumn shocks, there lay The ghastly harvest of the fray, The corpses of the slain.
VI.
Ay, look again--that line, so black And trampled, marks the bivouac, Yon deep-graved ruts the artillery's track, So often lost and won; And close beside, the hardened mud Still shows where, fetlock-deep in blood, The fierce dragoon, through battle's flood, Dashed the hot war-horse on.
These spots of excavation tell The ravage of the bursting shell - And feel'st thou not the tainted steam, That reeks against the sultry beam, From yonder trenched mound?
The pestilential fumes declare That Carnage has replenished there Her garner-house profound.
VII.
Far other harvest-home and feast, Than claims the boor from scythe released, On these scorched fields were known!
Death hovered o'er the maddening rout, And, in the thrilling battle-shout, Sent for the bloody banquet out A summons of his own.
Through rolling smoke the Demon's eye Could well each destined guest espy, Well could his ear in ecstasy Distinguish every tone That filled the chorus of the fray - From cannon-roar and trumpet-bray, From charging squadrons' wild hurra, From the wild clang that marked their way, - Down to the dying groan, And the last sob of life's decay, When breath was all but flown.
VIII.
Feast on, stern foe of mortal life, Feast on!--but think not that a strife, With such promiscuous carnage rife, Protracted space may last; The deadly tug of war at length Must limits find in human strength, And cease when these are past.
Vain hope!--that morn's o'erclouded sun Heard the wild shout of fight begun Ere he attained his height, And through the war-smoke, volumed high, Still peals that unremitted cry, Though now he stoops to night.
For ten long hours of doubt and dread, Fresh succours from the extended head Of either hill the contest fed; Still down the slope they drew, The charge of columns paused not, Nor ceased the storm of shell and shot; For all that war could do Of skill and force was proved that day, And turned not yet the doubtful fray On bloody Waterloo.
IX.
Pale Brussels! then what thoughts were thine, When ceaseless from the distant line Continued thunders came!
Each burgher held his breath, to hear These forerunners of havoc near, Of rapine and of flame.
What ghastly sights were thine to meet, When rolling through thy stately street, The wounded showed their mangled plight In token of the unfinished fight, And from each anguish-laden wain The blood-drops laid thy dust like rain!
How often in the distant drum Heard'st thou the fell Invader come, While Ruin, shouting to his band, Shook high her torch and gory brand! - Cheer thee, fair City! From yon stand, Impatient, still his outstretched hand Points to his prey in vain, While maddening in his eager mood, And all unwont to be withstood, He fires the fight again.
X.
"On! On!" was still his stern exclaim; "Confront the battery's jaws of flame!
Rush on the levelled gun!
My steel-clad cuirassiers, advance!
Each Hulan forward with his lance, My Guard--my Chosen--charge for France, France and Napoleon!"
Loud answered their acclaiming shout, Greeting the mandate which sent out Their bravest and their best to dare The fate their leader shunned to share.
But HE, his country's sword and shield, Still in the battle-front revealed, Where danger fiercest swept the field, Came like a beam of light, In action prompt, in sentence brief - "Soldiers, stand firm!" exclaimed the Chief, "England shall tell the fight!"
XI.
On came the whirlwind--like the last But fiercest sweep of tempest-blast - On came the whirlwind--steel-gleams broke Like lightning through the rolling smoke; The war was waked anew, Three hundred cannon-mouths roared loud, And from their throats, with flash and cloud, Their showers of iron threw.
Beneath their fire, in full career, Rushed on the ponderous cuirassier, The lancer couched his ruthless spear, And hurrying as to havoc near, The cohorts' eagles flew.
In one dark torrent, broad and strong, The advancing onset rolled along, Forth harbingered by fierce acclaim, That, from the shroud of smoke and flame, Pealed wildly the imperial name.
XII.
But on the British heart were lost The terrors of the charging host; For not an eye the storm that viewed Changed its proud glance of fortitude, Nor was one forward footstep stayed, As dropped the dying and the dead.
Fast as their ranks the thunders tear, Fast they renewed each serried square; And on the wounded and the slain Closed their diminished files again, Till from their line scarce spears'-lengths three, Emerging from the smoke they see Helmet, and plume, and panoply, - Then waked their fire at once!
Each musketeer's revolving knell, As fast, as regularly fell, As when they practise to display Their discipline on festal day.
Then down went helm and lance, Down were the eagle banners sent, Down reeling steeds and riders went, Corslets were pierced, and pennons rent; And, to augment the fray, Wheeled full against their staggering flanks, The English horsemen's foaming ranks Forced their resistless way.
Then to the musket-knell succeeds The clash of swords--the neigh of steeds - As plies the smith his clanging trade, Against the cuirass rang the blade; And while amid their close array The well-served cannon rent their way, And while amid their scattered band Raged the fierce rider's bloody brand, Recoiled in common rout and fear, Lancer and guard and cuirassier, Horsemen and foot,--a mingled host Their leaders fall'n, their standards lost.
XIII.
Then, WELLINGTON! thy piercing eye This crisis caught of destiny - The British host had stood That morn 'gainst charge of sword and lance As their own ocean-rocks hold stance, But when thy voice had said, "Advance!"
They were their ocean's flood. - O Thou, whose inauspicious aim Hath wrought thy host this hour of shame, Think'st thou thy broken bands will bide The terrors of yon rushing tide?
Or will thy chosen brook to feel The British shock of levelled steel, Or dost thou turn thine eye Where coming squadrons gleam afar, And fresher thunders wake the war, And other standards fly? - Think not that in yon columns, file Thy conquering troops from distant Dyle - Is Blucher yet unknown?
Or dwells not in thy memory still (Heard frequent in thine hour of ill), What notes of hate and vengeance thrill In Prussia's trumpet-tone? - What yet remains?--shall it be thine To head the relics of thy line In one dread effort more? - The Roman lore thy leisure loved, And than canst tell what fortune proved That Chieftain, who, of yore, Ambition's dizzy paths essayed And with the gladiators' aid For empire enterprised - He stood the cast his rashness played, Left not the victims he had made, Dug his red grave with his own blade, And on the field he lost was laid, Abhorred--but not despised.
XIV.
But if revolves thy fainter thought On safety--howsoever bought, - Then turn thy fearful rein and ride, Though twice ten thousand men have died On this eventful day To gild the military fame Which thou, for life, in traffic tame Wilt barter thus away.
Shall future ages tell this tale Of inconsistence faint and frail?
And art thou He of Lodi's bridge, Marengo's field, and Wagram's ridge!
Or is thy soul like mountain-tide, That, swelled by winter storm and shower, Rolls down in turbulence of power, A torrent fierce and wide; Reft of these aids, a rill obscure, Shrinking unnoticed, mean and poor, Whose channel shows displayed The wrecks of its impetuous course, But not one symptom of the force By which these wrecks were made!
XV.
Spur on thy way!--since now thine ear Has brooked thy veterans' wish to hear, Who, as thy flight they eyed Exclaimed,--while tears of anguish came, Wrung forth by pride, and rage, and shame, "O that he had but died!"
But yet, to sum this hour of ill, Look, ere thou leav'st the fatal hill, Back on yon broken ranks - Upon whose wild confusion gleams The moon, as on the troubled streams When rivers break their banks, And, to the ruined peasant's eye, Objects half seen roll swiftly by, Down the dread current hurled - So mingle banner, wain, and gun, Where the tumultuous flight rolls on Of warriors, who, when morn begun, Defied a banded world.
XVI.
List--frequent to the hurrying rout, The stern pursuers' vengeful shout Tells, that upon their broken rear Rages the Prussian's bloody spear.
So fell a shriek was none, When Beresina's icy flood Reddened and thawed with flame and blood, And, pressing on thy desperate way, Raised oft and long their wild hurra, The children of the Don.