WATERLOO. Yet Albion's ofi%priug, firm in joy, or ill, Ev'n in their sadness are undaunted still. 'Tis Duty nerves beneath Misfortune's rod, Trust in their cMef--yet less in him than God. Slow move the hours; the tardy morn still shrouds Her feeble radiance in a night of Clouds. Dim thro' the vapour, and the driving storm, On either height stalks many a warlike form. And who is he amid the Gallic host, With that fierce gesture of insulting boast ? Who, as to seize the prey in fahey won, Clencb'd his rais'd hand ? It is Napole �Ha *. dost thou hold them in thysavage grasp ? That eager hand on empty air may clasp !. Well hast thou laid each deep dissembled plan,- But not remember'd they were laid by Man; And weigh'd most subtly in the scale of sense Each turn of chance--but not of Providence; Trac'd. from each source, save One, the sure event, But dost not know that One Omuipotent *. Let thy vain hand strife's lightning signal yield, And wake war's thunder on war's deadliest field; By thee, whose mad ambition fr'd the world, 'Tis well that torch of discord should be hud'd.* �It is said that Buonalmrte fired, ,?th hls own ? the f?st cau- non at Waterloo. ......... ?Google
�
