Literary Gazette, 21st January, 1826, Page 43
IO TRIUMPHE.
Heavy had been the march that day,
For long and sultry was the way;
More weary far than if it lay
To be cut through armed foes:
The pennon drooped upon the air,
As if it had no business there,
With nothing rival near to dare,
And nothing to oppose.
'Twas pleasant when the darkening west
Called the worn soldier to his rest,
Upon the green earth's mother breast,
To dream of hearth and home:
On many a rough cheek the soft smile,
With an unconscious tear the while,
Told how the visions could beguile
That on such slumbers come.
But morning came—and with it came
Tidings that lit the brow to flame;
Forgot the night-dream's gentler claim—
The weary march forgot:
Hark to the clarion ringing clear!
Hark to the trumpet's voice of cheer!
And, like an omen on the ear,
The distant cannon-shot!
There rode the eagles on the wind,—
The hills are with the white ranks lined,
And thousands gather dark behind,
Like a storm on the sea:
And face them—England's gallant bands,
Their fearful welcome in their hands,
In whizzing balls and flashing brands—
Death, is this all for thee?
One moment, 'tis a gallant sight—
Float the rich banners from the height,
And helm and cuirass blaze in light
From the young day-break's beam:
Beneath the curb proud coursers prance,
Like summer clouds the white plumes dance,
And the red flags from the bright lance
Like sudden meteors gleam.
