WATERLOO.
71
But anxious thoughts broke many a soldier's rest,
Thoughts not unworthy of a Hero's breast.
The rugged Veteran, struggling with a sigh,
In fancy listen'd to his orphans' cry;
Saw them a prey to poverty and woe,
And felt that pang which only parents know.
With eager feelings, not unmixed with awe,
A battle's eve now first the Stripling saw:
Weary, and wet, and famished as he lay,
Imagination wandering far away,
Shews him the scene of dear, domestic joy;
Laughs with him o'er the frolics of the boy.
The words of parting tingle in his ears;
How swells his heart, as each loved form appears!
And now it yearns towards her, and her alone,
Whom youth's fond dreams had given him for his own.
From these—from her—'twas agony to part!
To-morrow's chance smote chill upon his heart.
'Twas but a moment. Hope asserts her right,
Grants him his wildest visions of delight.
To gay, victorious thoughts, he lightly yields,
And sleeps like Condé[1] ere his first of fields.
Slow broke the Sun thro' that sad morning's gloom,
And awful scene his watery beams illume.
No glittering pageant met the dazzled eyes;
For painful marches, and tempestuous skies
Had quenched the light of steel—the pride of gold:
Each warrior's plight a tale of hardship told.
And youthful eyes beamed gaiety no more,
But all a look of settled fierceness wore.
It is a breathless pause—while armies wait
The madd'ning signal for the work of fate.
Thoughts not unworthy of a Hero's breast.
The rugged Veteran, struggling with a sigh,
In fancy listen'd to his orphans' cry;
Saw them a prey to poverty and woe,
And felt that pang which only parents know.
With eager feelings, not unmixed with awe,
A battle's eve now first the Stripling saw:
Weary, and wet, and famished as he lay,
Imagination wandering far away,
Shews him the scene of dear, domestic joy;
Laughs with him o'er the frolics of the boy.
The words of parting tingle in his ears;
How swells his heart, as each loved form appears!
And now it yearns towards her, and her alone,
Whom youth's fond dreams had given him for his own.
From these—from her—'twas agony to part!
To-morrow's chance smote chill upon his heart.
'Twas but a moment. Hope asserts her right,
Grants him his wildest visions of delight.
To gay, victorious thoughts, he lightly yields,
And sleeps like Condé[1] ere his first of fields.
Slow broke the Sun thro' that sad morning's gloom,
And awful scene his watery beams illume.
No glittering pageant met the dazzled eyes;
For painful marches, and tempestuous skies
Had quenched the light of steel—the pride of gold:
Each warrior's plight a tale of hardship told.
And youthful eyes beamed gaiety no more,
But all a look of settled fierceness wore.
It is a breathless pause—while armies wait
The madd'ning signal for the work of fate.
- ↑ The battle of Rocroi, on the eve of which, according to Voltaire (Siécle de Louis XIV.), the Prince, having made all his dispositions, slept so soundly, that they were obliged to awaken him for the engagement.
