On the red fields they won; whose wild flowers wave
Now in luxuriant beauty o'er their grave.
'Twas then the captives of Britannia's war [1]
Here for their lovely southern climes afar
In bondage pined; the spell-deluded throng
Dragg'd at ambition's chariot-wheels so long
To die—because a despot could not clasp
A sceptre fitted to his boundless grasp!
Yes! they whose march had rock'd the ancient thrones
And temples of the world—the deepening tones
Of whose advancing trumpet from repose
Had startled nations, wakening to their woes—
Were prisoners here. And there were some whose dreams
Were of sweet homes, by chainless mountain-streams,
And of the vine-clad hills, and many a strain
And festal melody of Loire or Seine;
And of those mothers who had watch'd and wept,
When on the field the unshelter'd conscript slept,
Bathed with the midnight dews. And some were there
Of sterner spirits, harden'd by despair;
Who, in their dark imaginings, again
Fired the rich palace and the stately fane,
Drank in their victim's shriek, as music's breath,
And lived o'er scenes, the festivals of death!
And there was mirth, too!—strange and savage mirth,
More fearful far than all the woes of earth!
The laughter of cold hearts, and scoffs that spring
From minds for which there is no sacred thing;
And transient bursts of fierce, exulting glee—
The lightning's flash upon its blasted tree!
But still, howe'er the soul's disguise were worn,
If from wild revelry, or haughty scorn,
Or buoyant hope, it won an outward show,
Slight was the mask, and all beneath it—woe.
Yet, was this all! Amidst the dungeon-gloom,
The void, the stillness of the captive's doom,
Were there no deeper thoughts? And that dark power
To whom guilt owes one late but dreadful hour,
The mighty debt through years of crime delay'd,
But, is the grave's, inevitably paid;
- ↑ The French prisoners, taken in the wars with Napoleon, were confined in a depot on Dartmoor.
