Thine ear no yell of horror cleft So ominous, when, all bereft Of aid, the valiant Polack left - Ay, left by thee--found soldiers grave In Leipsic's corpse-encumbered wave.
Fate, in those various perils past, Reserved thee still some future cast; On the dread die thou now hast thrown Hangs not a single field alone, Nor one campaign--thy martial fame, Thy empire, dynasty, and name Have felt the final stroke; And now, o'er thy devoted head The last stern vial's wrath is shed, The last dread seal is broke.
XVII.
Since live thou wilt--refuse not now Before these demagogues to bow, Late objects of thy scorn and hate, Who shall thy once imperial fate Make wordy theme of vain debate. - Or shall we say, thou stoop'st less low In seeking refuge from the foe, Against whose heart, in prosperous life, Thine hand hath ever held the knife?
Such homage hath been paid By Roman and by Grecian voice, And there were honour in the choice, If it were freely made.
Then safely come--in one so low, - So lost,--we cannot own a foe; Though dear experience bid us end, In thee we ne'er can hail a friend. - Come, howsoe'er--but do not hide Close in thy heart that germ of pride, Erewhile, by gifted bard espied, That "yet imperial hope;"
Think not that for a fresh rebound, To raise ambition from the ground, We yield thee means or scope.
In safety come--but ne'er again Hold type of independent reign; No islet calls thee lord, We leave thee no confederate band, No symbol of thy lost command, To be a dagger in the hand From which we wrenched the sword.
XVIII.
Yet, even in yon sequestered spot, May worthier conquest be thy lot Than yet thy life has known; Conquest, unbought by blood or harm, That needs nor foreign aid nor arm, A triumph all thine own.
Such waits thee when thou shalt control Those passions wild, that stubborn soul, That marred thy prosperous scene:- Hear this--from no unmoved heart, Which sighs, comparing what THOU ART With what thou MIGHT'ST HAVE BEEN!
XIX.
Thou, too, whose deeds of fame renewed Bankrupt a nation's gratitude, To thine own noble heart must owe More than the meed she can bestow.
For not a people's just acclaim, Not the full hail of Europe's fame, Thy Prince's smiles, the State's decree, The ducal rank, the gartered knee, Not these such pure delight afford As that, when hanging up thy sword, Well may'st thou think, "This honest steel Was ever drawn for public weal; And, such was rightful Heaven's decree, Ne'er sheathed unless with victory!"
XX.
Look forth, once more, with softened heart, Ere from the field of fame we part; Triumph and Sorrow border near, And joy oft melts into a tear.
Alas! what links of love that morn Has War's rude hand asunder torn!
For ne'er was field so sternly fought, And ne'er was conquest dearer bought, Here piled in common slaughter sleep Those whom affection long shall weep Here rests the sire, that ne'er shall strain His orphans to his heart again; The son, whom, on his native shore, The parent's voice shall bless no more; The bridegroom, who has hardly pressed His blushing consort to his breast; The husband, whom through many a year Long love and mutual faith endear.
Thou canst not name one tender tie, But here dissolved its relics lie!
Oh! when thou see'st some mourner's veil Shroud her thin form and visage pale, Or mark'st the Matron's bursting tears Stream when the stricken drum she hears; Or see'st how manlier grief, suppressed, Is labouring in a father's breast, - With no inquiry vain pursue The cause, but think on Waterloo!
XXI.
Period of honour as of woes, What bright careers 'twas thine to close! - Marked on thy roll of blood what names To Britain's memory, and to Fame's, Laid there their last immortal claims!
Thou saw'st in seas of gore expire Redoubted PICTON'S soul of fire - Saw'st in the mingled carnage lie All that of PONSONBY could die - DE LANCEY change Love's bridal-wreath For laurels from the hand of Death - Saw'st gallant MILLER'S failing eye Still bent where Albion's banners fly, And CAMERON, in the shock of steel, Die like the offspring of Lochiel; And generous GORDON, 'mid the strife, Fall while he watched his leader's life. - Ah! though her guardian angel's shield Fenced Britain's hero through the field.
Fate not the less her power made known, Through his friends' hearts to pierce his own!
XXII.
Forgive, brave Dead, the imperfect lay!
Who may your names, your numbers, say?
What high-strung harp, what lofty line, To each the dear-earned praise assign, From high-born chiefs of martial fame To the poor soldier's lowlier name?
Lightly ye rose that dawning day, From your cold couch of swamp and clay, To fill, before the sun was low, The bed that morning cannot know. - Oft may the tear the green sod steep, And sacred be the heroes' sleep, Till time shall cease to run; And ne'er beside their noble grave, May Briton pass and fail to crave A blessing on the fallen brave Who fought with Wellington!
XXIII.
Farewell, sad Field! whose blighted face Wears desolation's withering trace; Long shall my memory retain Thy shattered huts and trampled grain, With every mark of martial wrong, That scathe thy towers, fair Hougomont!
Yet though thy garden's green arcade The marksman's fatal post was made, Though on thy shattered beeches fell The blended rage of shot and shell, Though from thy blackened portals torn, Their fall thy blighted fruit-trees mourn, Has not such havoc bought a name Immortal in the rolls of fame?
Yes--Agincourt may be forgot, And Cressy be an unknown spot, And Blenheim's name be new; But still in story and in song, For many an age remembered long, Shall live the towers of Hougomont And Field of Waterloo!
CONCLUSION.
Stern tide of human Time! that know'st not rest, But, sweeping from the cradle to the tomb, Bear'st ever downward on thy dusky breast Successive generations to their doom; While thy capacious stream has equal room For the gay bark where Pleasure's steamers sport, And for the prison-ship of guilt and gloom, The fisher-skiff, and barge that bears a court, Still wafting onward all to one dark silent port; -
Stern tide of Time! through what mysterious change Of hope and fear have our frail barks been driven!
For ne'er, before, vicissitude so strange Was to one race of Adam's offspring given.
And sure such varied change of sea and heaven, Such unexpected bursts of joy and woe, Such fearful strife as that where we have striven, Succeeding ages ne'er again shall know, Until the awful term when Thou shalt cease to flow.
Well hast thou stood, my Country!--the brave fight Hast well maintained through good report and ill; In thy just cause and in thy native might, And in Heaven's grace and justice constant still; Whether the banded prowess, strength, and skill Of half the world against thee stood arrayed, Or when, with better views and freer will, Beside thee Europe's noblest drew the blade, Each emulous in arms the Ocean Queen to aid.
Well art thou now repaid--though slowly rose, And struggled long with mists thy blaze of fame, While like the dawn that in the orient glows On the broad wave its earlier lustre came; Then eastern Egypt saw the growing flame, And Maida's myrtles gleamed beneath its ray, Where first the soldier, stung with generous shame, Rivalled the heroes of the watery way, And washed in foemen's gore unjust reproach away.
Now, Island Empress, wave thy crest on high, And bid the banner of thy Patron flow, Gallant Saint George, the flower of Chivalry, For thou halt faced, like him, a dragon foe, And rescued innocence from overthrow, And trampled down, like him, tyrannic might, And to the gazing world may'st proudly show The chosen emblem of thy sainted Knight, Who quelled devouring pride and vindicated right.
Yet 'mid the confidence of just renown, Renown dear-bought, but dearest thus acquired, Write, Britain, write the moral lesson down: 'Tis not alone the heart with valour fired, The discipline so dreaded and admired, In many a field of bloody conquest known, --Such may by fame be lured, by gold be hired: 'Tis constancy in the good cause alone Best justifies the meed thy valiant sons have won.
THE DANCE OF DEATH. [1815.]
I.
Night and morning were at meeting Over Waterloo; Cocks had sung their earliest greeting; Faint and low they crew, For no paly beam yet shone On the heights of Mount Saint John; Tempest-clouds prolonged the sway Of timeless darkness over day; Whirlwind, thunder-clap, and shower Marked it a predestined hour.
Broad and frequent through the night Flashed the sheets of levin-light: Muskets, glancing lightnings back, Showed the dreary bivouac Where the soldier lay, Chill and stiff, and drenched with rain, Wishing dawn of morn again, Though death should come with day.
II.
'Tis at such a tide and hour Wizard, witch, and fiend have power, And ghastly forms through mist and shower Gleam on the gifted ken; And then the affrighted prophet's ear Drinks whispers strange of fate and fear Presaging death and ruin near Among the sons of men; - Apart from Albyn's war-array, 'Twas then grey Allan sleepless lay; Grey Allan, who, for many a day, Had followed stout and stern, Where, through battle's rout and reel, Storm of shot and edge of steel, Led the grandson of Lochiel, Valiant Fassiefern.
Through steel and shot he leads no more, Low laid 'mid friends' and foemen's gore - But long his native lake's wild shore, And Sunart rough, and high Ardgower, And Morven long shall tell, And proud Bennevis hear with awe How, upon bloody Quatre-Bras, Brave Cameron heard the wild hurra Of conquest as he fell.
III.
Lone on the outskirts of the host, The weary sentinel held post, And heard, through darkness far aloof, The frequent clang of courser's hoof, Where held the cloaked patrol their course, And spurred 'gainst storm the swerving horse; But there are sounds in Allan's ear, Patrol nor sentinel may hear, And sights before his eye aghast Invisible to them have passed, When down the destined plain, 'Twixt Britain and the bands of France, Wild as marsh-borne meteor's glance, Strange phantoms wheeled a revel dance, And doomed the future slain. - Such forms were seen, such sounds were heard, When Scotland's James his march prepared For Flodden's fatal plain; Such, when he drew his ruthless sword, As Choosers of the Slain, adored The yet unchristened Dane.
An indistinct and phantom band, They wheeled their ring-dance hand in hand, With gestures wild and dread; The Seer, who watched them ride the storm, Saw through their faint and shadowy form The lightning's flash more red; And still their ghastly roundelay Was of the coming battle-fray, And of the destined dead.
IV. SONG.
Wheel the wild dance While lightnings glance, And thunders rattle loud, And call the brave To bloody grave, To sleep without a shroud.
Our airy feet, So light and fleet, They do not bend the rye That sinks its head when whirlwinds rave, And swells again in eddying wave, As each wild gust blows by; But still the corn, At dawn of morn, Our fatal steps that bore, At eve lies waste, A trampled paste Of blackening mud and gore.
Wheel the wild dance While lightnings glance, And thunders rattle loud, And call the brave To bloody grave, To sleep without a shroud.
V.
Wheel the wild dance!
Brave sons of France, For you our ring makes room; Make space full wide For martial pride, For banner, spear, and plume.
Approach, draw near, Proud cuirassier!
Room for the men of steel!
Through crest and plate The broadsword's weight Both head and heart shall feel.
VI.
Wheel the wild dance While lightnings glance, And thunders rattle loud, And call the brave To bloody grave, To sleep without a shroud.
Sons of the spear!
You feel us near In many a ghastly dream; With fancy's eye Our forms you spy, And hear our fatal scream.
With clearer sight Ere falls the night, Just when to weal or woe Your disembodied souls take flight On trembling wing--each startled sprite Our choir of death shall know.
VII.
Wheel the wild dance While lightnings glance, And thunders rattle loud, And call the brave To bloody grave, To sleep without a shroud.