WATERLOO.
77
Thou cry for mercy! was it not denied
To every suppliant in thine hour of pride?
Grim laughs th' avenger hanging on thy way,
Weary with slaughter, lab'ring still to slay:
And unfleshed Belgians hurry down to glean
The field where Britain's generous hand had been.
To distant skies that hurricane has rolled—
But oh! the wreck is left! Could tongue unfold
The matchless horrors of those cumbered plains,
'Twould chill the current in a warrior's veins.
And yet, that field of anguish, brief as keen,
Was but the centre of the one wide scene
Of human misery. Oh! who shall say
How many wounded spirits, far away,
Are left to groan thro' long, chill, bitter years,
Beneath the woe that nothing earthly cheers.
Shall Glory be the widowed bride's relief?
She feels it but a mockery of grief.
Shall Glory dry the childless mother's tears?
Harsh grate the notes of Fame upon her ears!
Thine are no Spartan matrons, favoured isle!
Gentle as fair! The sunshine of their smile,
Where the proud victor loves to bask, is set,
With Sorrow's dew the loveliest cheeks are wet.
Throughout the land is gone a mourning voice;
And broken are the hearts that should rejoice.
Dimly, as yet, the Crown of Victory shines;
Where cypress with the blood-stained laurel twines.
But there shall Time the brightest verdure breathe,
And pluck the gloomy foilage from her wreath.
Then proudly shall posterity retrace,
First in the deathless honours of their race,
That giant fight, which crushed Napoleon's power,
And saved the world. Far distant is the hour
Unheard of, yet, the deed our sons must do,
That shall eclipse thy glory, Waterloo!!
To every suppliant in thine hour of pride?
Grim laughs th' avenger hanging on thy way,
Weary with slaughter, lab'ring still to slay:
And unfleshed Belgians hurry down to glean
The field where Britain's generous hand had been.
To distant skies that hurricane has rolled—
But oh! the wreck is left! Could tongue unfold
The matchless horrors of those cumbered plains,
'Twould chill the current in a warrior's veins.
And yet, that field of anguish, brief as keen,
Was but the centre of the one wide scene
Of human misery. Oh! who shall say
How many wounded spirits, far away,
Are left to groan thro' long, chill, bitter years,
Beneath the woe that nothing earthly cheers.
Shall Glory be the widowed bride's relief?
She feels it but a mockery of grief.
Shall Glory dry the childless mother's tears?
Harsh grate the notes of Fame upon her ears!
Thine are no Spartan matrons, favoured isle!
Gentle as fair! The sunshine of their smile,
Where the proud victor loves to bask, is set,
With Sorrow's dew the loveliest cheeks are wet.
Throughout the land is gone a mourning voice;
And broken are the hearts that should rejoice.
Dimly, as yet, the Crown of Victory shines;
Where cypress with the blood-stained laurel twines.
But there shall Time the brightest verdure breathe,
And pluck the gloomy foilage from her wreath.
Then proudly shall posterity retrace,
First in the deathless honours of their race,
That giant fight, which crushed Napoleon's power,
And saved the world. Far distant is the hour
Unheard of, yet, the deed our sons must do,
That shall eclipse thy glory, Waterloo!!
