WATERLOO.
73
Wild waves of sable plumage o'er them dancing;
Above that sea, quick, broken flashes glancing
From brandished steel; shrill raising, as they came,
The spell of that all-conquering chieftain's name.
Dismal the rattle of their harness grew;
Their grisly features opened on the view.
Forth spurring, cheerful as their trumpets rang,
The stately chivalry of England sprang
In native valor—arms of proof—arrayed:
Nought but his own right hand, and his good blade,
To guard each hero's breast. Like thunder-clouds
Rolling together, clash the foaming crowds.
Their swords are falling with gigantic sway,
And gashes yawn, and limbs are lopped away:
And lightened chargers toss the loosening rein,
Break frantic forth, and scour along the plain.
Their lords, the glorious shapes of war they bore,
The terrible, the graceful—are no more;
Crushed out of man's similitude, expire,
With nought to mark them from the gory mire,
(Tomb of their yet warm relics) save the last
Convulsive flutter, as the Spirit past.
Those iron warriors reel! their eagle's won,
Tho' squadrons bled to rescue it! 'tis done,—
That stern, unequal combat! 'tis a chase!
Hot Wrath let loose on Terror and Disgrace!
Such is the desert antelope's career;
Plunging, and tossing, mad with pain and fear;
Whom her keen foe, the murd'rous vulture, rides
With talons rooted in her streaming sides.
Where, yonder, war's tumultuous billows roll;
Where each wild passion fires the frenzied soul;
The blood, the havoc, of that ruthless hour
On those steeled hearts have lost their chilling power.
The charging veteran marks, with careless eye,
His comrade sink; and, as he rushes by,
Above that sea, quick, broken flashes glancing
From brandished steel; shrill raising, as they came,
The spell of that all-conquering chieftain's name.
Dismal the rattle of their harness grew;
Their grisly features opened on the view.
Forth spurring, cheerful as their trumpets rang,
The stately chivalry of England sprang
In native valor—arms of proof—arrayed:
Nought but his own right hand, and his good blade,
To guard each hero's breast. Like thunder-clouds
Rolling together, clash the foaming crowds.
Their swords are falling with gigantic sway,
And gashes yawn, and limbs are lopped away:
And lightened chargers toss the loosening rein,
Break frantic forth, and scour along the plain.
Their lords, the glorious shapes of war they bore,
The terrible, the graceful—are no more;
Crushed out of man's similitude, expire,
With nought to mark them from the gory mire,
(Tomb of their yet warm relics) save the last
Convulsive flutter, as the Spirit past.
Those iron warriors reel! their eagle's won,
Tho' squadrons bled to rescue it! 'tis done,—
That stern, unequal combat! 'tis a chase!
Hot Wrath let loose on Terror and Disgrace!
Such is the desert antelope's career;
Plunging, and tossing, mad with pain and fear;
Whom her keen foe, the murd'rous vulture, rides
With talons rooted in her streaming sides.
Where, yonder, war's tumultuous billows roll;
Where each wild passion fires the frenzied soul;
The blood, the havoc, of that ruthless hour
On those steeled hearts have lost their chilling power.
The charging veteran marks, with careless eye,
His comrade sink; and, as he rushes by,
