But the trumpet warned to part, There was many a friend to lose him, Wept when all their tears were dried. Thomas Campbell. BATTLE OF WATERLOO. THEY breathe no longer: let their ashes rest! THEY Clamor unjust and calumny They stooped not to confute; but flung their breast Against the legions of your enemy, And thus avenged themselves: for you they die. Woe to you, woe! if those inhuman eyes Can spare no drops to mourn your country's weal; Shrinking before your selfish miseries; Against the common sorrow hard as steel: Tremble the hand of death upon you lies: You may be forced yourselves to feel. But no, - what son of France has spared his tears For her defenders, dying in their fame? Though kings return, desired through lengthening years, What old man's cheek is tinged not with her shame? What veteran, who their fortune's treason hears, Feels not the quickening spark of his old youthful flame? Great Heaven! what lessons mark that one day's page! In struggling rage that pants for breath; I see the broken squadrons reel; The steeds plunge wild with spurning heel; The leopard standards swooping o'er; Sway, shock, and drag their shattered mass along, Wrecks, corses, blood, — the footmarks of their way. Through whirlwind smoke and flashing flame, - Struck with the rare devotion, 't is in vain And, proud to conquer, hem them round; the cry 'T is said, that, when in dust they saw them lie, See, then, these heroes, long invincible, Whose threatening features still their conquerors brave; Frozen in death, those eyes are terrible; Feats of the past their deep-scarred brows engrave : For these are they who bore Italia's sun, Who, o'er Castilia's mountain-barrier passed. On some proud day that should survive in story. Let us no longer mourn them; for the palm Friendship, no more unbosomed, hides her tears, And man shuns man, and each his fellow fears; O cursed delirium jars deplored That yield our home-hearths to the stranger's sword! The strangers raze our fenced walls; And Franks, disputing for the choice of power, some tears France! France! awake, with one indignant mind! With new-born hosts the throne's dread precinct bind! Disarmed, divided, conquerors o'er us stand; Present the olive, but the sword in hand. Those eagles wrested from our Varus' hand. Jean-François-Casimir Delavigne. Tr. Anon. VERSES ON THE DAY OF WATERLOO. OLD soldiers tell me, "We may thank thy Muse, That now the People popular songs can sing; Laugh thou at laurels faction may refuse; To our exploits again thy numbers string. Sing of that day, which traitors dared invoke, That latest day of ruin, though of fame." I said, my moist eyes drooping as I spoke, "Ne'er shall my verse be saddened by that name." In Athens, who of Cheronea's day Would sing, the whilst his tuneful lyre he swept ? Doubting her gods, crestfallen Athens lay, And cursing Philip, o'er her fortunes wept. On such a day our glorious empire fell; Then, charged with chains for us, the stranger came; Degenerate Frenchmen deigned to greet him well: Ne'er shall my verse be saddened by that name. |