But as losers at play
Their dice throw away,
While the winners do still win on;
Let who will command,
Thou hadst better disband,
For, old Bully, thy doctors are gone.
LINES WRITTEN ON THE FIELD OF QUATRE BRAS, 1821.
bright the sun puts forth his glorious beams,
So fair the field beneath his lustre gleams,
So soft the south-wind wanders o'er the corn,
While on its wing a thousand scents are borne,
So bright and fair, so peaceful and serene,
So soft and calm and undisturbed the scene,
It seems as if no storm had ever rose,
Or e'er could rise, to break its sweet repose.
But on this lovely spot when last I stood,
What was that field? -a theatre of blood!
The war-fiend here unfurled his baleful wing,
Here mocked at pain, and smiled at suffering:
Yelling with joy as each new victim bled,
Gloated his eye on hecatombs of dead;
Steeped his foul pinions in a sea of gore,
And, drenched with slaughter, still demanded more.
Yes, for the blue of yonder cloudless sky,
Above us hung a sulphurous canopy;
For murmuring rill, and carol of the bird,
Were whizzing shot and roaring cannon heard;
Bristled the bayonet, gleamed the deadly glaive,
Where thickest now the golden harvests wave;
Where tender harebells wave in azure bloom,
Floated the pennon with the warrior's plume;
For rural echoes, or the wild bees' hum,
Brayed the hoarse trumpet, rolled the hollow drum;
And where yon meadow's turf most verdant is,
There fell the fiercest of our enemies.
They fell indeed! — but with them what a host
Of conquerors, comrades, brothers, friends, was lost!
What tears bedewed the bodies of the brave,
As sanguine hands consigned them to the grave;
What sobs burst forth as voices joined in prayer,
Which but an hour before had joined the battle there ;
What manly bosoms heaved with sorrow's sigh,
Which but an hour before throbbed high in victory!
Alas! among the most deplored of those
Who, wrapped in shrouds of glory, here repose,
Here, on this field, their valor nobly won,
Lies low in earth the gallant Barrington!
O that my feeble hand could justly trace
His manly virtues and his youthful grace;
O that my feeble pen could trace his eye,
Where sat enshrined the soul of bravery;
Or shew his sword uplifted in the fight,
Dashing through foremost ranks with meteor light.-
Enough, surrounded by a heap of slain,
He sunk triumphant on the gory plain;
Sudden the silver cord of life was riven,
And the freed spirit sprang at once to Heaven!
E do not curse thee, Waterloo !
Though freedom's blood thy plain bedew;
There 't was shed, but is not sunk, -
Rising from each gory trunk,
Like the water-spout from ocean,
With a strong and growing motion,
It soars and mingles in the air,
With that of lost Labedoyere, -
With that of him whose honored grave
Contains the "bravest of the brave."
A crimson cloud it spreads and glows,
But shall return to whence it rose;
When 't is full, 't will burst asunder,
Never yet was heard such thunder
As then shall shake the world with wonder,
Never yet was seen such lightning,
As o'er heaven shall then be brightening!
Like the Wormwood star, foretold
By the sainted seer of old,
Showering down a fiery flood,
Turning rivers into blood.
The chief has fallen, but not by you,
Vanquishers of Waterloo!
When the soldier citizen
Swayed not o'er his fellow-men,
Save in deeds that led them on
Where glory smiled on freedom's son,
Who, of all the despots banded,
With that youthful chief competed? Who could boast o'er France defeated, Till lone tyranny commanded? Till, goaded by ambition's sting, The hero sunk into the king? Then he fell; so perish all, Who would men by man enthrall!
And thou too of the snow-white plume!
Whose realm refused thee even a tomb;
Better hadst thou still been leading
France o'er hosts of hirelings bleeding,
Than sold thyself to death and shame
For a meanly royal name;
Such as he of Naples wears,
Who thy blood-bought title bears.
Little didst thou deem, when dashing
On thy war-horse through the ranks,
Like a stream which burst its banks,
While helmets cleft, and sabres clashing,
Shone and shivered fast around thee,
Of the fate at last which found thee:
Was that haughty plume laid low
By a slave's dishonest blow?
Once as the moon sways o'er the tide,
It rolled in air, the warrior's guide;
Through the smoke-created night
Of the black and sulphurous fight,
The soldier raised his seeking eye
To catch that crest's ascendency,-
And as it onward rolling rose
So moved his heart upon our foes.
There, where death's brief pang was quickest,
And the battle's wreck lay thickest,
Strewed beneath the advancing banner
Of the eagle's burning crest, -
(There with thunder-clouds to fan her
Who could then her wing arrest,
Victory beaming from her breast ?)
While the broken line enlarging
Fell, or fled along the plain:
There be sure was Murat charging!
There he ne'er shall charge again!
O'er glories gone the invaders march,
Weeps triumph o'er each levelled arch,
But let Freedom rejoice,
With her heart in her voice;
Put her hand on her sword,
Doubly shall she be adored;
France hath twice too well been taught
The "moral lesson" dearly bought,
Her safety sits not on a throne,
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