ButLa Haye Sainte to Donzelot’s infantry fell—The heroic Frenchman fought there nobly and well—Thus securing the Emperor a lodgment sought,A strategic point for a decisive onslaughtOn Wellington’s centre, that he still seeks to gain,Where his best troops were broken, and broken in vain.Blucher is coming! hear his guns’ opening roar,Pressing the right of the French, now in peril sore.The Emperor detaches Lobau’s corps completeAnd Dumont’s horse this fatal new danger to meet.But Bulow turns Lobau’s left, and Planchenoit is wonNear to the going down of the red summer’s sun.But the Emperor checks Bulow with his Young Guard,And for a time they gallantly keep watch and wardO’er the right of the French, fighting desperately there—Still hopeful, though desperately assailed everywhere.Will the Emperor’s star of destiny go down to-day,And his vast fabric be swept forever away?His sun of victory set now to rise no more,And the splendor of his dreams die on War’s stern shore?Avalanches of attack he still hurls on the foe;Ceaselessly and recklessly they surge to and froAll along the Duke’s firm lines, but surging in vain.The bright valor of Britain those stern lines maintainUnbroken by the desperate destroying strife,Though to maintain them thousands are bereft of life.The stratagems of a lifetime could not prevail;His hitherto decisive moves were of no avail.He might hurl his raging storms of grapeshot and shell,He might thunder as the ravening maw of hell,Hurl his cavalryen masseon the devoted squares,Rush his infantry forward, and lay his deep snares,Which must have ruined any other army complete,Slaughtered, dismembered, and put to retreat;But the Britons stood steadfast in undaunted pride,And the legions of France they dared and defied.And they cumbered death’s valley with the enemy slain,Like sheaves in the ripe harvest of winnow and wain.And thus sorely assailed near the set of the sun,The Iron Duke exclaims, “Would that night or Blucher might come!”The hour of seven o’clock had now been told,Still the rage of the battle uncertain rolled.Like gladiators of old they tugged and tore,And gory thousands have fallen to rise no more.The burning issues of the day are deep and wide—Shall Europe have liberty from the despotic prideOf Imperial France, waged by a single mind,A genius of war, to human sufferings blind?But his fate is approaching in the lurid gleamOf the loud raging cannon, and the living streamOf Britain’s deathless valor, that will never yield,And they’ll win it or perish, this desperate field.A dark mass near La Belle Alliance is seen to formInto gigantic columns, to drive like a stormIn irresistible fury o’er the death-strewn plain,To o’erwhelm the Duke’s centre and cut him in twain.They are the Old Guard and Young, twelve thousand and more,Veterans of a hundred battles, who o’er and o’erHad grasped victory from defeat on many a field.Surely Britain’s array to these powers must yield.The Emperor reserved them for acoup de main,And he sent them forward assured they would gainFor him the victory. And their triumphant cheerOf “Vive l’Empereur!” rose from souls void of fear.Majestically they descend the slope of the hill,—’Tis a sight the most stony of natures to thrill,Theeliteof the French army, as onward they go,The heroes of Austerlitz, Wagram, and Marengo.Between Hougomont and La Haye Sainte lies their way,Where the British await them there, sternly at bay.Now with redoubled vigor their batteries thunderOn the allied lines, firmly waiting yonder,Where the devastating missiles ruthlessly pour’Mid the horrible din and the deafening roarOf the deadly conflict raging frightfully there,And the moans of the dying and cries of despair.The drooping spirits of his lines he must reanimate,And sends anaide-de-campat a lightning rateTo announce that Grouchy is coming—is near—And his divisions lift up their voices and cheer.Now from La Haye Sainte Donzelot pushes againAn avalanche of attack, like withering flame.On the left centre of the allies, bruised and sore,Are the stern German brigades, firm as rocks; and o’erThe din and tumult the French legions might hearThe shout of defiance and the Germans’ grand cheer.“They’re coming! the attack will be the centre, my lord,”Said Lord Fitzroy Somerset, waving his good sword,And directing, as he spoke, his glass on the foe,The advancing columns in the red vale below.“I see it,” was Wellington’s unmoved reply,As he ordered Maitland’s brigade to deploy, and lieDown behind the ridge of the torn sheltering hill,For a few moments longer restraining their will.In front of them are formed in a firm red lineA brigade of infantry abiding their time.On the right of the Guards is Adams’s brigade,Waiting the dread shock as though on parade.Stationed above, and partly upon the road,The grim guns form up, and quickly, silently loadWith grape, and await the signal there to open—Though all hearts are aflame, not a word is spoken.It is an awful moment, one to try men’s souls,And the horrible din all about them rolls.On the far left the Prussians are pounding away,But the brave French fight sternly and hold them at bay.All along our grand lines the French batter in vain,Though the dead strew the hills and encumber the plain.Dark masses of Guards climb the slope of the hill,Stately columns coming on with confidence still;Their guns cease fire as above the ridge they now show,Tipped with the gleam of the sunset’s red glow.Then began that cheer those who heard never could forget—From those famed Belgian hills doth it echo yet.From Hougomont, near the right, with its blood-stained walls,To Papalotte on the left, it thunders and fallsIn long-restrained, pent-up vengeance; and throughThe true instinct that valor teaches well they knewThe hour of trial had come, when that wild cry flewFrom rank to rank, as it echoed and thundered anew.“They come! they come!” repeat it, and shout it again;And “Vive l’Empereur!” rolls up from the plain.Preceded by a tempest of grapeshot and shell,And a charge of cavalry that fought nobly and well,Ney’s column fired its volley and advanced againWith the bayonet, and was met by roar and flameOf our raging guns that now rent him through and through.The dark columns of the Guards, as near us they drew,Moved obliquely to the right, then on they came—A desperate movement in a desperate game.Adams’ brigade on their left flank’s deployed four deep,And the dark ranks of the Old Guard they rend and sweepBy successive volleys. Hot and scathing they fell;And the blows they delivered told nobly and well.But though scathed and mangled, still on they came,—A noble chivalry, to preserve a stainless fame.All Europe acknowledges a devotion sublimeThat shall live for ever in the annals of time.Ney, himself on foot, at their fearless head is found;Twice his leading divisions are turned aroundAs the destroying fire wastes and consumes him there;But his dauntless soul knoweth no craven despair!By the prestige of a hundred battles sustained,The crest of the hill they have already gained.The artillery close up; the flanking fire from the gunsOn the road dismembers, slaughters, shrivels and stunsThe famous Old Guard; and with their front blown awayCan they still crush the British and thus win the day?The Duke seized the moment and instantly cried,“Up, Guards, and at them!” And they uprose in stern pride,As stately as ever, aye, as ever was seen;And the sun’s setting glory threw o’er them its sheen.The hour of fierce triumph and vengeance had comeAt the going down of the warm, peaceful June sun.One deadly volley on the coming French they pour,And three hundred are death-stricken to rise no more.Then with the bayonet they charge, knowing no fear;On the French foe they rush with a wild British cheer.Then came the most dreadful struggle all war can present—Crashing columns of heroes, blood-stained and rent.Foot to foot, and eye to eye, they stagger and reelBy the furious crash of the ringing cold steel.Long restrained, the British are furious now,And passionate valor burns on each stern brow.And the French generals fall fast on every side:Michel, Jamier, and Mallet have heroically died,And Friant is sore wounded and helplessly falls;Ney, his dress pierced and ragged and torn by balls,Shouts to his wavering legions still to advanceOnce more for the Emperor and Imperial France!But his leading files now waver and hesitateOn the brink and the ruin of impending fate.The British press down upon them sternly and well;The cavalry gallop up, and at last pell mell,Overwhelmed and beaten, the torn French fall backO’er the winnows of slain that encumber their track.The decisive moment of the awful day had come,And a thrill through the grand allied ranks did run.
ButLa Haye Sainte to Donzelot’s infantry fell—The heroic Frenchman fought there nobly and well—Thus securing the Emperor a lodgment sought,A strategic point for a decisive onslaughtOn Wellington’s centre, that he still seeks to gain,Where his best troops were broken, and broken in vain.Blucher is coming! hear his guns’ opening roar,Pressing the right of the French, now in peril sore.The Emperor detaches Lobau’s corps completeAnd Dumont’s horse this fatal new danger to meet.But Bulow turns Lobau’s left, and Planchenoit is wonNear to the going down of the red summer’s sun.But the Emperor checks Bulow with his Young Guard,And for a time they gallantly keep watch and wardO’er the right of the French, fighting desperately there—Still hopeful, though desperately assailed everywhere.Will the Emperor’s star of destiny go down to-day,And his vast fabric be swept forever away?His sun of victory set now to rise no more,And the splendor of his dreams die on War’s stern shore?Avalanches of attack he still hurls on the foe;Ceaselessly and recklessly they surge to and froAll along the Duke’s firm lines, but surging in vain.The bright valor of Britain those stern lines maintainUnbroken by the desperate destroying strife,Though to maintain them thousands are bereft of life.The stratagems of a lifetime could not prevail;His hitherto decisive moves were of no avail.He might hurl his raging storms of grapeshot and shell,He might thunder as the ravening maw of hell,Hurl his cavalryen masseon the devoted squares,Rush his infantry forward, and lay his deep snares,Which must have ruined any other army complete,Slaughtered, dismembered, and put to retreat;But the Britons stood steadfast in undaunted pride,And the legions of France they dared and defied.And they cumbered death’s valley with the enemy slain,Like sheaves in the ripe harvest of winnow and wain.And thus sorely assailed near the set of the sun,The Iron Duke exclaims, “Would that night or Blucher might come!”The hour of seven o’clock had now been told,Still the rage of the battle uncertain rolled.Like gladiators of old they tugged and tore,And gory thousands have fallen to rise no more.The burning issues of the day are deep and wide—Shall Europe have liberty from the despotic prideOf Imperial France, waged by a single mind,A genius of war, to human sufferings blind?But his fate is approaching in the lurid gleamOf the loud raging cannon, and the living streamOf Britain’s deathless valor, that will never yield,And they’ll win it or perish, this desperate field.A dark mass near La Belle Alliance is seen to formInto gigantic columns, to drive like a stormIn irresistible fury o’er the death-strewn plain,To o’erwhelm the Duke’s centre and cut him in twain.They are the Old Guard and Young, twelve thousand and more,Veterans of a hundred battles, who o’er and o’erHad grasped victory from defeat on many a field.Surely Britain’s array to these powers must yield.The Emperor reserved them for acoup de main,And he sent them forward assured they would gainFor him the victory. And their triumphant cheerOf “Vive l’Empereur!” rose from souls void of fear.Majestically they descend the slope of the hill,—’Tis a sight the most stony of natures to thrill,Theeliteof the French army, as onward they go,The heroes of Austerlitz, Wagram, and Marengo.Between Hougomont and La Haye Sainte lies their way,Where the British await them there, sternly at bay.Now with redoubled vigor their batteries thunderOn the allied lines, firmly waiting yonder,Where the devastating missiles ruthlessly pour’Mid the horrible din and the deafening roarOf the deadly conflict raging frightfully there,And the moans of the dying and cries of despair.The drooping spirits of his lines he must reanimate,And sends anaide-de-campat a lightning rateTo announce that Grouchy is coming—is near—And his divisions lift up their voices and cheer.Now from La Haye Sainte Donzelot pushes againAn avalanche of attack, like withering flame.On the left centre of the allies, bruised and sore,Are the stern German brigades, firm as rocks; and o’erThe din and tumult the French legions might hearThe shout of defiance and the Germans’ grand cheer.“They’re coming! the attack will be the centre, my lord,”Said Lord Fitzroy Somerset, waving his good sword,And directing, as he spoke, his glass on the foe,The advancing columns in the red vale below.“I see it,” was Wellington’s unmoved reply,As he ordered Maitland’s brigade to deploy, and lieDown behind the ridge of the torn sheltering hill,For a few moments longer restraining their will.In front of them are formed in a firm red lineA brigade of infantry abiding their time.On the right of the Guards is Adams’s brigade,Waiting the dread shock as though on parade.Stationed above, and partly upon the road,The grim guns form up, and quickly, silently loadWith grape, and await the signal there to open—Though all hearts are aflame, not a word is spoken.It is an awful moment, one to try men’s souls,And the horrible din all about them rolls.On the far left the Prussians are pounding away,But the brave French fight sternly and hold them at bay.All along our grand lines the French batter in vain,Though the dead strew the hills and encumber the plain.Dark masses of Guards climb the slope of the hill,Stately columns coming on with confidence still;Their guns cease fire as above the ridge they now show,Tipped with the gleam of the sunset’s red glow.Then began that cheer those who heard never could forget—From those famed Belgian hills doth it echo yet.From Hougomont, near the right, with its blood-stained walls,To Papalotte on the left, it thunders and fallsIn long-restrained, pent-up vengeance; and throughThe true instinct that valor teaches well they knewThe hour of trial had come, when that wild cry flewFrom rank to rank, as it echoed and thundered anew.“They come! they come!” repeat it, and shout it again;And “Vive l’Empereur!” rolls up from the plain.Preceded by a tempest of grapeshot and shell,And a charge of cavalry that fought nobly and well,Ney’s column fired its volley and advanced againWith the bayonet, and was met by roar and flameOf our raging guns that now rent him through and through.The dark columns of the Guards, as near us they drew,Moved obliquely to the right, then on they came—A desperate movement in a desperate game.Adams’ brigade on their left flank’s deployed four deep,And the dark ranks of the Old Guard they rend and sweepBy successive volleys. Hot and scathing they fell;And the blows they delivered told nobly and well.But though scathed and mangled, still on they came,—A noble chivalry, to preserve a stainless fame.All Europe acknowledges a devotion sublimeThat shall live for ever in the annals of time.Ney, himself on foot, at their fearless head is found;Twice his leading divisions are turned aroundAs the destroying fire wastes and consumes him there;But his dauntless soul knoweth no craven despair!By the prestige of a hundred battles sustained,The crest of the hill they have already gained.The artillery close up; the flanking fire from the gunsOn the road dismembers, slaughters, shrivels and stunsThe famous Old Guard; and with their front blown awayCan they still crush the British and thus win the day?The Duke seized the moment and instantly cried,“Up, Guards, and at them!” And they uprose in stern pride,As stately as ever, aye, as ever was seen;And the sun’s setting glory threw o’er them its sheen.The hour of fierce triumph and vengeance had comeAt the going down of the warm, peaceful June sun.One deadly volley on the coming French they pour,And three hundred are death-stricken to rise no more.Then with the bayonet they charge, knowing no fear;On the French foe they rush with a wild British cheer.Then came the most dreadful struggle all war can present—Crashing columns of heroes, blood-stained and rent.Foot to foot, and eye to eye, they stagger and reelBy the furious crash of the ringing cold steel.Long restrained, the British are furious now,And passionate valor burns on each stern brow.And the French generals fall fast on every side:Michel, Jamier, and Mallet have heroically died,And Friant is sore wounded and helplessly falls;Ney, his dress pierced and ragged and torn by balls,Shouts to his wavering legions still to advanceOnce more for the Emperor and Imperial France!But his leading files now waver and hesitateOn the brink and the ruin of impending fate.The British press down upon them sternly and well;The cavalry gallop up, and at last pell mell,Overwhelmed and beaten, the torn French fall backO’er the winnows of slain that encumber their track.The decisive moment of the awful day had come,And a thrill through the grand allied ranks did run.
ButLa Haye Sainte to Donzelot’s infantry fell—The heroic Frenchman fought there nobly and well—Thus securing the Emperor a lodgment sought,A strategic point for a decisive onslaughtOn Wellington’s centre, that he still seeks to gain,Where his best troops were broken, and broken in vain.
Blucher is coming! hear his guns’ opening roar,Pressing the right of the French, now in peril sore.The Emperor detaches Lobau’s corps completeAnd Dumont’s horse this fatal new danger to meet.But Bulow turns Lobau’s left, and Planchenoit is wonNear to the going down of the red summer’s sun.But the Emperor checks Bulow with his Young Guard,And for a time they gallantly keep watch and wardO’er the right of the French, fighting desperately there—Still hopeful, though desperately assailed everywhere.
Will the Emperor’s star of destiny go down to-day,And his vast fabric be swept forever away?His sun of victory set now to rise no more,And the splendor of his dreams die on War’s stern shore?
Avalanches of attack he still hurls on the foe;Ceaselessly and recklessly they surge to and froAll along the Duke’s firm lines, but surging in vain.The bright valor of Britain those stern lines maintainUnbroken by the desperate destroying strife,Though to maintain them thousands are bereft of life.The stratagems of a lifetime could not prevail;His hitherto decisive moves were of no avail.He might hurl his raging storms of grapeshot and shell,He might thunder as the ravening maw of hell,Hurl his cavalryen masseon the devoted squares,Rush his infantry forward, and lay his deep snares,Which must have ruined any other army complete,Slaughtered, dismembered, and put to retreat;But the Britons stood steadfast in undaunted pride,And the legions of France they dared and defied.And they cumbered death’s valley with the enemy slain,Like sheaves in the ripe harvest of winnow and wain.And thus sorely assailed near the set of the sun,The Iron Duke exclaims, “Would that night or Blucher might come!”
The hour of seven o’clock had now been told,Still the rage of the battle uncertain rolled.Like gladiators of old they tugged and tore,And gory thousands have fallen to rise no more.The burning issues of the day are deep and wide—Shall Europe have liberty from the despotic prideOf Imperial France, waged by a single mind,A genius of war, to human sufferings blind?But his fate is approaching in the lurid gleamOf the loud raging cannon, and the living streamOf Britain’s deathless valor, that will never yield,And they’ll win it or perish, this desperate field.
A dark mass near La Belle Alliance is seen to formInto gigantic columns, to drive like a stormIn irresistible fury o’er the death-strewn plain,To o’erwhelm the Duke’s centre and cut him in twain.They are the Old Guard and Young, twelve thousand and more,Veterans of a hundred battles, who o’er and o’erHad grasped victory from defeat on many a field.Surely Britain’s array to these powers must yield.The Emperor reserved them for acoup de main,And he sent them forward assured they would gainFor him the victory. And their triumphant cheerOf “Vive l’Empereur!” rose from souls void of fear.Majestically they descend the slope of the hill,—’Tis a sight the most stony of natures to thrill,Theeliteof the French army, as onward they go,The heroes of Austerlitz, Wagram, and Marengo.Between Hougomont and La Haye Sainte lies their way,Where the British await them there, sternly at bay.
Now with redoubled vigor their batteries thunderOn the allied lines, firmly waiting yonder,Where the devastating missiles ruthlessly pour’Mid the horrible din and the deafening roarOf the deadly conflict raging frightfully there,And the moans of the dying and cries of despair.The drooping spirits of his lines he must reanimate,And sends anaide-de-campat a lightning rateTo announce that Grouchy is coming—is near—And his divisions lift up their voices and cheer.
Now from La Haye Sainte Donzelot pushes againAn avalanche of attack, like withering flame.On the left centre of the allies, bruised and sore,Are the stern German brigades, firm as rocks; and o’erThe din and tumult the French legions might hearThe shout of defiance and the Germans’ grand cheer.“They’re coming! the attack will be the centre, my lord,”Said Lord Fitzroy Somerset, waving his good sword,And directing, as he spoke, his glass on the foe,The advancing columns in the red vale below.“I see it,” was Wellington’s unmoved reply,As he ordered Maitland’s brigade to deploy, and lieDown behind the ridge of the torn sheltering hill,For a few moments longer restraining their will.In front of them are formed in a firm red lineA brigade of infantry abiding their time.On the right of the Guards is Adams’s brigade,Waiting the dread shock as though on parade.Stationed above, and partly upon the road,The grim guns form up, and quickly, silently loadWith grape, and await the signal there to open—Though all hearts are aflame, not a word is spoken.
It is an awful moment, one to try men’s souls,And the horrible din all about them rolls.On the far left the Prussians are pounding away,But the brave French fight sternly and hold them at bay.All along our grand lines the French batter in vain,Though the dead strew the hills and encumber the plain.
Dark masses of Guards climb the slope of the hill,Stately columns coming on with confidence still;Their guns cease fire as above the ridge they now show,Tipped with the gleam of the sunset’s red glow.Then began that cheer those who heard never could forget—From those famed Belgian hills doth it echo yet.From Hougomont, near the right, with its blood-stained walls,To Papalotte on the left, it thunders and fallsIn long-restrained, pent-up vengeance; and throughThe true instinct that valor teaches well they knewThe hour of trial had come, when that wild cry flewFrom rank to rank, as it echoed and thundered anew.“They come! they come!” repeat it, and shout it again;And “Vive l’Empereur!” rolls up from the plain.
Preceded by a tempest of grapeshot and shell,And a charge of cavalry that fought nobly and well,Ney’s column fired its volley and advanced againWith the bayonet, and was met by roar and flameOf our raging guns that now rent him through and through.The dark columns of the Guards, as near us they drew,Moved obliquely to the right, then on they came—A desperate movement in a desperate game.Adams’ brigade on their left flank’s deployed four deep,And the dark ranks of the Old Guard they rend and sweepBy successive volleys. Hot and scathing they fell;And the blows they delivered told nobly and well.But though scathed and mangled, still on they came,—A noble chivalry, to preserve a stainless fame.All Europe acknowledges a devotion sublimeThat shall live for ever in the annals of time.Ney, himself on foot, at their fearless head is found;Twice his leading divisions are turned aroundAs the destroying fire wastes and consumes him there;But his dauntless soul knoweth no craven despair!
By the prestige of a hundred battles sustained,The crest of the hill they have already gained.The artillery close up; the flanking fire from the gunsOn the road dismembers, slaughters, shrivels and stunsThe famous Old Guard; and with their front blown awayCan they still crush the British and thus win the day?The Duke seized the moment and instantly cried,“Up, Guards, and at them!” And they uprose in stern pride,As stately as ever, aye, as ever was seen;And the sun’s setting glory threw o’er them its sheen.
The hour of fierce triumph and vengeance had comeAt the going down of the warm, peaceful June sun.One deadly volley on the coming French they pour,And three hundred are death-stricken to rise no more.Then with the bayonet they charge, knowing no fear;On the French foe they rush with a wild British cheer.Then came the most dreadful struggle all war can present—Crashing columns of heroes, blood-stained and rent.Foot to foot, and eye to eye, they stagger and reelBy the furious crash of the ringing cold steel.Long restrained, the British are furious now,And passionate valor burns on each stern brow.
And the French generals fall fast on every side:Michel, Jamier, and Mallet have heroically died,And Friant is sore wounded and helplessly falls;Ney, his dress pierced and ragged and torn by balls,Shouts to his wavering legions still to advanceOnce more for the Emperor and Imperial France!But his leading files now waver and hesitateOn the brink and the ruin of impending fate.The British press down upon them sternly and well;The cavalry gallop up, and at last pell mell,Overwhelmed and beaten, the torn French fall backO’er the winnows of slain that encumber their track.The decisive moment of the awful day had come,And a thrill through the grand allied ranks did run.
“The field is won! Order the whole line to advance.Rollen masseon the wavering legions of France.”Thus ordered the Duke, and a responsive cryOf joy and glad triumph pealed up to the sky.On they came four deep, and like a torrent pouredFrom the heights; and our hot guns boomed and roared.A fiery wave of valor they rolled on the foe,And irresistibly swept them to the valley below.All along our lines, from Papelotte to Merc Braine,Rose that thund’rous cheer of great triumph again.“Let the Life Guards charge them,” here the Iron Duke said;And a grand brigade of horse, by Lord Uxbridge led,Rode down on the French centre, sabreing them there.Broken and dispirited, they waver in despair.Incessantly our cavalry charge on the foe,Flashing and flaming in the lurid sunset’s glow;Piercing and dismembering the French everywhere,While the infantry press forward the laurels to share.With the bayonet the foe they sweep from their path,A Nemesis of fate in o’erpowering wrath.The Prussian guns play on their right flank and their rear;The British bayonet in front; while a panic of fearSpreads through their wavering ranks, and the hopeless cryOf “Sauve qui peut!” resounds from their ranks reeling by.All in vain Marshal Ney, “the bravest of the brave,”Soult, Bertrand, Gourgand, and Labedoyer, to saveThe day, burst from the disorganiz’d mass, and on them callTo stand firm, to conquer, or heroically fall!“For the Emperor and sunny Imperial France.Steady the lines and re-form, and again advance.”A battalion of the Old Guard alone obey.With brave Cambronne at their head, between the preyAnd their pursuers they form into square and stand,A sacrifice offering ’mid the ruin at hand—An offering to the tarnished honor of their armsIrretrievably ruined and fleeing in swarmsOf disorganized masses before that oncoming waveOf British valor. No earthly power can saveThe lost day! Ruin’d and beaten, and drifting awayBefore that magnificent advance and arrayOf chivalry, worthy of “the brave days of old.”Glorified in the sunset, onward it rolled!Through the “valley of the shadow of death” they go,Devastatingly rolling upon the lost foe!Meanwhile, near La Belle Alliance, the Emperor stillHad some regiments in reserve, biding his will;And was rapidly rallying his beaten Old Guard,Hitherto invincible—the watch and the wardOf his army—the last card in the desperate playOf the game of war, hitherto winning the day.The remnants of his cavalry he’d collected, too,Still hoping the British to pierce and break through.But the Duke’s eagle eye fathoms his useless game,And his valiant soul is now grandly aflameAs he launches Vivian’s cavalry brigadeAgainst him. And oh, the immortal charge they made!Through the “valley of the shadow of death” they tore,And on La Belle Alliance like a torrent pour,Sweeping all before them—cavalry, Old Guard, and all;And like destroying angels on his reserves they fall.Completely successful, they rode calmly back againProudly over the lurid, ensanguined plain!O gallant hussars of a famous brigade,All time shall echo the destroying charge ye made!The Emperor strives his disasters to repair,And with lightning speed rides thither, everywhere,Commanding, ordering, imploring, but in vain.Broken and confused, they only exclaim,“Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!” and fly swift from the frightful field,Despairing masses that stagger and reelIn inextricable confusion of headlong flight,Into the gloom and darkness of the falling night.The Emperor by his staff was now borne away,And disappeared in the shadows dim and gray—Disappeared, and his sun will rise nevermore;Gone down on the “soldier of destiny” for evermore;But on freed Europe the sun of peace doth rise,And the acclaims of freedom peal up to the skies.British valor all Europe never can forget;On that “field of fields” it is flaming grandly yet,And Wellington’s fame to posterity is given,Through storm and tempest unsullied, unriven.Who can forget the close of that eventful day?And the meeting there in the fading twilight grayOf Wellington and Blucher, clasping hands againMutely over the heaps of wounded and slain?Clasping hands as brothers, with hearts too full to speak,While tears wash the battle stain from the soldier’s cheek!Aye, that was a meeting the world cannot forget,And the effect is lasting, it endureth yet.
“The field is won! Order the whole line to advance.Rollen masseon the wavering legions of France.”Thus ordered the Duke, and a responsive cryOf joy and glad triumph pealed up to the sky.On they came four deep, and like a torrent pouredFrom the heights; and our hot guns boomed and roared.A fiery wave of valor they rolled on the foe,And irresistibly swept them to the valley below.All along our lines, from Papelotte to Merc Braine,Rose that thund’rous cheer of great triumph again.“Let the Life Guards charge them,” here the Iron Duke said;And a grand brigade of horse, by Lord Uxbridge led,Rode down on the French centre, sabreing them there.Broken and dispirited, they waver in despair.Incessantly our cavalry charge on the foe,Flashing and flaming in the lurid sunset’s glow;Piercing and dismembering the French everywhere,While the infantry press forward the laurels to share.With the bayonet the foe they sweep from their path,A Nemesis of fate in o’erpowering wrath.The Prussian guns play on their right flank and their rear;The British bayonet in front; while a panic of fearSpreads through their wavering ranks, and the hopeless cryOf “Sauve qui peut!” resounds from their ranks reeling by.All in vain Marshal Ney, “the bravest of the brave,”Soult, Bertrand, Gourgand, and Labedoyer, to saveThe day, burst from the disorganiz’d mass, and on them callTo stand firm, to conquer, or heroically fall!“For the Emperor and sunny Imperial France.Steady the lines and re-form, and again advance.”A battalion of the Old Guard alone obey.With brave Cambronne at their head, between the preyAnd their pursuers they form into square and stand,A sacrifice offering ’mid the ruin at hand—An offering to the tarnished honor of their armsIrretrievably ruined and fleeing in swarmsOf disorganized masses before that oncoming waveOf British valor. No earthly power can saveThe lost day! Ruin’d and beaten, and drifting awayBefore that magnificent advance and arrayOf chivalry, worthy of “the brave days of old.”Glorified in the sunset, onward it rolled!Through the “valley of the shadow of death” they go,Devastatingly rolling upon the lost foe!Meanwhile, near La Belle Alliance, the Emperor stillHad some regiments in reserve, biding his will;And was rapidly rallying his beaten Old Guard,Hitherto invincible—the watch and the wardOf his army—the last card in the desperate playOf the game of war, hitherto winning the day.The remnants of his cavalry he’d collected, too,Still hoping the British to pierce and break through.But the Duke’s eagle eye fathoms his useless game,And his valiant soul is now grandly aflameAs he launches Vivian’s cavalry brigadeAgainst him. And oh, the immortal charge they made!Through the “valley of the shadow of death” they tore,And on La Belle Alliance like a torrent pour,Sweeping all before them—cavalry, Old Guard, and all;And like destroying angels on his reserves they fall.Completely successful, they rode calmly back againProudly over the lurid, ensanguined plain!O gallant hussars of a famous brigade,All time shall echo the destroying charge ye made!The Emperor strives his disasters to repair,And with lightning speed rides thither, everywhere,Commanding, ordering, imploring, but in vain.Broken and confused, they only exclaim,“Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!” and fly swift from the frightful field,Despairing masses that stagger and reelIn inextricable confusion of headlong flight,Into the gloom and darkness of the falling night.The Emperor by his staff was now borne away,And disappeared in the shadows dim and gray—Disappeared, and his sun will rise nevermore;Gone down on the “soldier of destiny” for evermore;But on freed Europe the sun of peace doth rise,And the acclaims of freedom peal up to the skies.British valor all Europe never can forget;On that “field of fields” it is flaming grandly yet,And Wellington’s fame to posterity is given,Through storm and tempest unsullied, unriven.Who can forget the close of that eventful day?And the meeting there in the fading twilight grayOf Wellington and Blucher, clasping hands againMutely over the heaps of wounded and slain?Clasping hands as brothers, with hearts too full to speak,While tears wash the battle stain from the soldier’s cheek!Aye, that was a meeting the world cannot forget,And the effect is lasting, it endureth yet.
“The field is won! Order the whole line to advance.Rollen masseon the wavering legions of France.”Thus ordered the Duke, and a responsive cryOf joy and glad triumph pealed up to the sky.
On they came four deep, and like a torrent pouredFrom the heights; and our hot guns boomed and roared.A fiery wave of valor they rolled on the foe,And irresistibly swept them to the valley below.All along our lines, from Papelotte to Merc Braine,Rose that thund’rous cheer of great triumph again.
“Let the Life Guards charge them,” here the Iron Duke said;And a grand brigade of horse, by Lord Uxbridge led,Rode down on the French centre, sabreing them there.Broken and dispirited, they waver in despair.Incessantly our cavalry charge on the foe,Flashing and flaming in the lurid sunset’s glow;Piercing and dismembering the French everywhere,While the infantry press forward the laurels to share.With the bayonet the foe they sweep from their path,A Nemesis of fate in o’erpowering wrath.The Prussian guns play on their right flank and their rear;The British bayonet in front; while a panic of fearSpreads through their wavering ranks, and the hopeless cryOf “Sauve qui peut!” resounds from their ranks reeling by.All in vain Marshal Ney, “the bravest of the brave,”Soult, Bertrand, Gourgand, and Labedoyer, to saveThe day, burst from the disorganiz’d mass, and on them callTo stand firm, to conquer, or heroically fall!“For the Emperor and sunny Imperial France.Steady the lines and re-form, and again advance.”A battalion of the Old Guard alone obey.With brave Cambronne at their head, between the preyAnd their pursuers they form into square and stand,A sacrifice offering ’mid the ruin at hand—An offering to the tarnished honor of their armsIrretrievably ruined and fleeing in swarmsOf disorganized masses before that oncoming waveOf British valor. No earthly power can saveThe lost day! Ruin’d and beaten, and drifting awayBefore that magnificent advance and arrayOf chivalry, worthy of “the brave days of old.”Glorified in the sunset, onward it rolled!Through the “valley of the shadow of death” they go,Devastatingly rolling upon the lost foe!
Meanwhile, near La Belle Alliance, the Emperor stillHad some regiments in reserve, biding his will;And was rapidly rallying his beaten Old Guard,Hitherto invincible—the watch and the wardOf his army—the last card in the desperate playOf the game of war, hitherto winning the day.The remnants of his cavalry he’d collected, too,Still hoping the British to pierce and break through.
But the Duke’s eagle eye fathoms his useless game,And his valiant soul is now grandly aflameAs he launches Vivian’s cavalry brigadeAgainst him. And oh, the immortal charge they made!Through the “valley of the shadow of death” they tore,And on La Belle Alliance like a torrent pour,Sweeping all before them—cavalry, Old Guard, and all;And like destroying angels on his reserves they fall.Completely successful, they rode calmly back againProudly over the lurid, ensanguined plain!O gallant hussars of a famous brigade,All time shall echo the destroying charge ye made!
The Emperor strives his disasters to repair,And with lightning speed rides thither, everywhere,Commanding, ordering, imploring, but in vain.Broken and confused, they only exclaim,“Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!” and fly swift from the frightful field,Despairing masses that stagger and reelIn inextricable confusion of headlong flight,Into the gloom and darkness of the falling night.The Emperor by his staff was now borne away,And disappeared in the shadows dim and gray—Disappeared, and his sun will rise nevermore;Gone down on the “soldier of destiny” for evermore;But on freed Europe the sun of peace doth rise,And the acclaims of freedom peal up to the skies.
British valor all Europe never can forget;On that “field of fields” it is flaming grandly yet,And Wellington’s fame to posterity is given,Through storm and tempest unsullied, unriven.
Who can forget the close of that eventful day?And the meeting there in the fading twilight grayOf Wellington and Blucher, clasping hands againMutely over the heaps of wounded and slain?Clasping hands as brothers, with hearts too full to speak,While tears wash the battle stain from the soldier’s cheek!Aye, that was a meeting the world cannot forget,And the effect is lasting, it endureth yet.
Allhail, old Scotia’s invincible clans,And the gallant sons of Erin’s green isle,And Britain’s indomitable men-at-arms!The genius of fair fame doth on them smile.United, ye are e’er invincible,A trinity that will not be denied,The fate of imperial France at Waterloo,The humbler of Napoleon’s despotic pride.
Allhail, old Scotia’s invincible clans,And the gallant sons of Erin’s green isle,And Britain’s indomitable men-at-arms!The genius of fair fame doth on them smile.United, ye are e’er invincible,A trinity that will not be denied,The fate of imperial France at Waterloo,The humbler of Napoleon’s despotic pride.
Allhail, old Scotia’s invincible clans,And the gallant sons of Erin’s green isle,And Britain’s indomitable men-at-arms!The genius of fair fame doth on them smile.United, ye are e’er invincible,A trinity that will not be denied,The fate of imperial France at Waterloo,The humbler of Napoleon’s despotic pride.
But, oh, the sight of that pent red field,Weird and terrible for evermore!’Mid the awful silence of the slain,Britain’s generous heart is sore.Though the laurels of fame crown her brow,She mourns for her immortal slain;Though famous fore’er and signalized,She bows her illustrious head in pain.Thousands marshalled there that sweet June morn,Strong and beautiful, side by side;Eve saw them in eternal repose—Fearless in heart they dared and died.Play solemn dirges and bear them away,Play them tenderly, soft and low;Let the drum’s muffled tone fall on the ear,Steadily, mournfully, and slow.Reverently in the valley of deathLay them away to final sleep;Fit place to crown the immortal dead,Where brave, true comrades o’er them weep.Oh, soldier hearts! grand, intrepid souls!The years thy laurels shall renew;Britain thy devotion ne’er can forget,On that field of fields—Waterloo.
But, oh, the sight of that pent red field,Weird and terrible for evermore!’Mid the awful silence of the slain,Britain’s generous heart is sore.Though the laurels of fame crown her brow,She mourns for her immortal slain;Though famous fore’er and signalized,She bows her illustrious head in pain.Thousands marshalled there that sweet June morn,Strong and beautiful, side by side;Eve saw them in eternal repose—Fearless in heart they dared and died.Play solemn dirges and bear them away,Play them tenderly, soft and low;Let the drum’s muffled tone fall on the ear,Steadily, mournfully, and slow.Reverently in the valley of deathLay them away to final sleep;Fit place to crown the immortal dead,Where brave, true comrades o’er them weep.Oh, soldier hearts! grand, intrepid souls!The years thy laurels shall renew;Britain thy devotion ne’er can forget,On that field of fields—Waterloo.
But, oh, the sight of that pent red field,Weird and terrible for evermore!’Mid the awful silence of the slain,Britain’s generous heart is sore.Though the laurels of fame crown her brow,She mourns for her immortal slain;Though famous fore’er and signalized,She bows her illustrious head in pain.
Thousands marshalled there that sweet June morn,Strong and beautiful, side by side;Eve saw them in eternal repose—Fearless in heart they dared and died.Play solemn dirges and bear them away,Play them tenderly, soft and low;Let the drum’s muffled tone fall on the ear,Steadily, mournfully, and slow.
Reverently in the valley of deathLay them away to final sleep;Fit place to crown the immortal dead,Where brave, true comrades o’er them weep.Oh, soldier hearts! grand, intrepid souls!The years thy laurels shall renew;Britain thy devotion ne’er can forget,On that field of fields—Waterloo.
Listen! for I hear the dove’s sweet song,So tender and mournfully sad,Up from the vale where the maples bloom,And the springtime e’er maketh glad.Hast wandered afar from a fairer clime?Was thy home in Southern bowers?Is life more fair, and more fragrant the air,Than in this grand Northland of ours?Tell me, sweet dove; for thy mournful voiceHath wakened old memories to-dayThat have only slept through the weary yearsThat have silently flown away.Art thou mateless and all alone, sweet dove,That thy dear song is never gay?Art thou calling down the emerald gladesIn vain, pleadingly, day by day?Thy plaintive voice stirs a tendernessCalled up from the shadowed deeps,Where a pale light flickers o’er hidden graves,And a dream-world forever sleeps.Surely ’tis lovely enough, sweet dove,O’er the hills that are sunny and sweet;And the lilies bloom in the vale below—Nature’s sweetness lies at thy feet.The sun and the wind are caressing thee,And all other songsters are gay;Canst thou not forget, and joyously singAs the bright hours pass away?’Tis ever the same, and ’twill ever beA mysterious, subtle regret;There are losses that sadden evermore,And they cling to the worn heart yet.
Listen! for I hear the dove’s sweet song,So tender and mournfully sad,Up from the vale where the maples bloom,And the springtime e’er maketh glad.Hast wandered afar from a fairer clime?Was thy home in Southern bowers?Is life more fair, and more fragrant the air,Than in this grand Northland of ours?Tell me, sweet dove; for thy mournful voiceHath wakened old memories to-dayThat have only slept through the weary yearsThat have silently flown away.Art thou mateless and all alone, sweet dove,That thy dear song is never gay?Art thou calling down the emerald gladesIn vain, pleadingly, day by day?Thy plaintive voice stirs a tendernessCalled up from the shadowed deeps,Where a pale light flickers o’er hidden graves,And a dream-world forever sleeps.Surely ’tis lovely enough, sweet dove,O’er the hills that are sunny and sweet;And the lilies bloom in the vale below—Nature’s sweetness lies at thy feet.The sun and the wind are caressing thee,And all other songsters are gay;Canst thou not forget, and joyously singAs the bright hours pass away?’Tis ever the same, and ’twill ever beA mysterious, subtle regret;There are losses that sadden evermore,And they cling to the worn heart yet.
Listen! for I hear the dove’s sweet song,So tender and mournfully sad,Up from the vale where the maples bloom,And the springtime e’er maketh glad.Hast wandered afar from a fairer clime?Was thy home in Southern bowers?Is life more fair, and more fragrant the air,Than in this grand Northland of ours?
Tell me, sweet dove; for thy mournful voiceHath wakened old memories to-dayThat have only slept through the weary yearsThat have silently flown away.Art thou mateless and all alone, sweet dove,That thy dear song is never gay?Art thou calling down the emerald gladesIn vain, pleadingly, day by day?
Thy plaintive voice stirs a tendernessCalled up from the shadowed deeps,Where a pale light flickers o’er hidden graves,And a dream-world forever sleeps.Surely ’tis lovely enough, sweet dove,O’er the hills that are sunny and sweet;And the lilies bloom in the vale below—Nature’s sweetness lies at thy feet.
The sun and the wind are caressing thee,And all other songsters are gay;Canst thou not forget, and joyously singAs the bright hours pass away?’Tis ever the same, and ’twill ever beA mysterious, subtle regret;There are losses that sadden evermore,And they cling to the worn heart yet.
Thesilver band was playing divinelyAt the close of a perfect summer day;And my heart in unison was throbbing,As I brushed a tender tear away.In the soft glow of the golden sunsetI saw two poor blinded eyes upturnedTo the purpling skies, so fair and deep,And my soul with sympathy yearned.He had caught the tender, passionate strains,Swelling and dreamily dying away,As wave after wave sweetly rose and fell,The soul welling up in immortal lay.The light softly fell on his blinded eyes,And over his speaking and careworn faceStole a holy light unutterable;A glow of ecstasy there I could trace.His soul was attuned to melodious strains.What he saw through his weary sightless eyesI never may know; but surely it wasA glimpse of the heavenly paradise.For surely God’s pity is reaching downTo the help of the poor and sightless here;And He takes the poor groping toil-worn hands,And points the way to the heavenly sphere.The sun went down, and the sad shadows cameMerging into the dreamy, soft twilight;The music ceased, and we stole awayInto the deepening gloom of night.And in the dream and mystery of lifeWe move along on our separate ways;But the pleading look of those sightless eyesWill follow me all my allotted days.Ah, me! we, too, are oft blindly gropingIn the weird darkness and danger alone;We see not the dread pitfalls before us,And oft are defeated and overthrown.Sometimes, through the cold mist and the dimness,We catch a glimpse of resplendent day,And a strain of sweetest music supernal,The refrain of a distant celestial lay.
Thesilver band was playing divinelyAt the close of a perfect summer day;And my heart in unison was throbbing,As I brushed a tender tear away.In the soft glow of the golden sunsetI saw two poor blinded eyes upturnedTo the purpling skies, so fair and deep,And my soul with sympathy yearned.He had caught the tender, passionate strains,Swelling and dreamily dying away,As wave after wave sweetly rose and fell,The soul welling up in immortal lay.The light softly fell on his blinded eyes,And over his speaking and careworn faceStole a holy light unutterable;A glow of ecstasy there I could trace.His soul was attuned to melodious strains.What he saw through his weary sightless eyesI never may know; but surely it wasA glimpse of the heavenly paradise.For surely God’s pity is reaching downTo the help of the poor and sightless here;And He takes the poor groping toil-worn hands,And points the way to the heavenly sphere.The sun went down, and the sad shadows cameMerging into the dreamy, soft twilight;The music ceased, and we stole awayInto the deepening gloom of night.And in the dream and mystery of lifeWe move along on our separate ways;But the pleading look of those sightless eyesWill follow me all my allotted days.Ah, me! we, too, are oft blindly gropingIn the weird darkness and danger alone;We see not the dread pitfalls before us,And oft are defeated and overthrown.Sometimes, through the cold mist and the dimness,We catch a glimpse of resplendent day,And a strain of sweetest music supernal,The refrain of a distant celestial lay.
Thesilver band was playing divinelyAt the close of a perfect summer day;And my heart in unison was throbbing,As I brushed a tender tear away.In the soft glow of the golden sunsetI saw two poor blinded eyes upturnedTo the purpling skies, so fair and deep,And my soul with sympathy yearned.
He had caught the tender, passionate strains,Swelling and dreamily dying away,As wave after wave sweetly rose and fell,The soul welling up in immortal lay.The light softly fell on his blinded eyes,And over his speaking and careworn faceStole a holy light unutterable;A glow of ecstasy there I could trace.
His soul was attuned to melodious strains.What he saw through his weary sightless eyesI never may know; but surely it wasA glimpse of the heavenly paradise.For surely God’s pity is reaching downTo the help of the poor and sightless here;And He takes the poor groping toil-worn hands,And points the way to the heavenly sphere.
The sun went down, and the sad shadows cameMerging into the dreamy, soft twilight;The music ceased, and we stole awayInto the deepening gloom of night.And in the dream and mystery of lifeWe move along on our separate ways;But the pleading look of those sightless eyesWill follow me all my allotted days.
Ah, me! we, too, are oft blindly gropingIn the weird darkness and danger alone;We see not the dread pitfalls before us,And oft are defeated and overthrown.Sometimes, through the cold mist and the dimness,We catch a glimpse of resplendent day,And a strain of sweetest music supernal,The refrain of a distant celestial lay.
Afterthe flight of thirty long yearsThey came at the welcome call;Someone had suggested a reunionOf the “old corps,” one and all.They came from the village and crossroads,The town, the shop, and the farm;Just as they did thirty years ago,When their hearts were young and warm.They met at the “campfire” of reunion,Clasped hands as comrades once more,Recalled the deeds of the dauntless past,And their campaigns recounted o’er.“Fall in!” the old commander shouted,“Fall in—after thirty years!”With the same old ring, save a tremble,And his eyes were misty with tears.And they formed in column by the left,“Proved” in sections and in fours,Just as they did thirty years ago,Guarding our frontier shores.But not with the same quick precisionAs when young and strong and gay;But they did it, and with kindling eyes,Though old and worn and gray.“Call the roll!” the old major ordered,“Call the living and the dead!”And a solemn hush fell along the line,And bowed was each veteran head.The orderly stepped to the centre,In front of the grand “old corps,”And called the names that were dimmed by time,As he had thirty years before.And the “Tommy A’s” along the lineAnswered, “Here, sir!” or “Dead! dead!”The sections were thinned by the march of time,Where all youthfulness had fled.A route march through the town was takenAnd the peopleen masseturned out,And greeted the flag and the grand “old corps”With welcome and loyal shout.Then they deploy from column to line,And turn to the right in fours;And the band and the colors anon “take post,”And the loyal heart upsoars.They “squared” their shoulders, and looked to the front,And the air was rent with cheers;The band struck up, and they marched awayTo the “British Grenadiers.”But not as they did thirty years ago,For time mars the soldier’s form;Not so erect or steady the pace,But to-day their old hearts are warm.And, if need be, for the Union JackE’en yet they would take their stand,To fight for the flag all love so well,And our fair Canadian land.Their ranks are formed for the last grand marchDown to a strange riverside—The wonderful river all must reach,That is deep and dark and wide.They soon will have gained its margin—God grant them safe transport o’er,And a campfire and grand reunion,A bivouac on the other shore.
Afterthe flight of thirty long yearsThey came at the welcome call;Someone had suggested a reunionOf the “old corps,” one and all.They came from the village and crossroads,The town, the shop, and the farm;Just as they did thirty years ago,When their hearts were young and warm.They met at the “campfire” of reunion,Clasped hands as comrades once more,Recalled the deeds of the dauntless past,And their campaigns recounted o’er.“Fall in!” the old commander shouted,“Fall in—after thirty years!”With the same old ring, save a tremble,And his eyes were misty with tears.And they formed in column by the left,“Proved” in sections and in fours,Just as they did thirty years ago,Guarding our frontier shores.But not with the same quick precisionAs when young and strong and gay;But they did it, and with kindling eyes,Though old and worn and gray.“Call the roll!” the old major ordered,“Call the living and the dead!”And a solemn hush fell along the line,And bowed was each veteran head.The orderly stepped to the centre,In front of the grand “old corps,”And called the names that were dimmed by time,As he had thirty years before.And the “Tommy A’s” along the lineAnswered, “Here, sir!” or “Dead! dead!”The sections were thinned by the march of time,Where all youthfulness had fled.A route march through the town was takenAnd the peopleen masseturned out,And greeted the flag and the grand “old corps”With welcome and loyal shout.Then they deploy from column to line,And turn to the right in fours;And the band and the colors anon “take post,”And the loyal heart upsoars.They “squared” their shoulders, and looked to the front,And the air was rent with cheers;The band struck up, and they marched awayTo the “British Grenadiers.”But not as they did thirty years ago,For time mars the soldier’s form;Not so erect or steady the pace,But to-day their old hearts are warm.And, if need be, for the Union JackE’en yet they would take their stand,To fight for the flag all love so well,And our fair Canadian land.Their ranks are formed for the last grand marchDown to a strange riverside—The wonderful river all must reach,That is deep and dark and wide.They soon will have gained its margin—God grant them safe transport o’er,And a campfire and grand reunion,A bivouac on the other shore.
Afterthe flight of thirty long yearsThey came at the welcome call;Someone had suggested a reunionOf the “old corps,” one and all.They came from the village and crossroads,The town, the shop, and the farm;Just as they did thirty years ago,When their hearts were young and warm.
They met at the “campfire” of reunion,Clasped hands as comrades once more,Recalled the deeds of the dauntless past,And their campaigns recounted o’er.“Fall in!” the old commander shouted,“Fall in—after thirty years!”With the same old ring, save a tremble,And his eyes were misty with tears.
And they formed in column by the left,“Proved” in sections and in fours,Just as they did thirty years ago,Guarding our frontier shores.But not with the same quick precisionAs when young and strong and gay;But they did it, and with kindling eyes,Though old and worn and gray.
“Call the roll!” the old major ordered,“Call the living and the dead!”And a solemn hush fell along the line,And bowed was each veteran head.The orderly stepped to the centre,In front of the grand “old corps,”And called the names that were dimmed by time,As he had thirty years before.
And the “Tommy A’s” along the lineAnswered, “Here, sir!” or “Dead! dead!”The sections were thinned by the march of time,Where all youthfulness had fled.A route march through the town was takenAnd the peopleen masseturned out,And greeted the flag and the grand “old corps”With welcome and loyal shout.
Then they deploy from column to line,And turn to the right in fours;And the band and the colors anon “take post,”And the loyal heart upsoars.They “squared” their shoulders, and looked to the front,And the air was rent with cheers;The band struck up, and they marched awayTo the “British Grenadiers.”
But not as they did thirty years ago,For time mars the soldier’s form;Not so erect or steady the pace,But to-day their old hearts are warm.And, if need be, for the Union JackE’en yet they would take their stand,To fight for the flag all love so well,And our fair Canadian land.
Their ranks are formed for the last grand marchDown to a strange riverside—The wonderful river all must reach,That is deep and dark and wide.They soon will have gained its margin—God grant them safe transport o’er,And a campfire and grand reunion,A bivouac on the other shore.
Forgotten? aye, cruelly forgotten!Passed by with looks of disdainBy the world, whose thin friendship is rotten,That honors but riches and gain.The poor are looked down upon coldly,Though grand men in poverty have died;And I assert, with just indignation,They were slain by the world’s cold pride.They struggled alone in the valleyTo win up the far heights of fame;And they pleaded but kind recognition,But you thrust them down coldly again.And you sneered at the lines they had written—Lines that shall live till time is no more—Fiery songs that light like a beaconAlong many a soul’s dark shore.And their thoughts were deep and uplifted;They soared like eagles on high,Or delved in the depths of the oceanOf knowledge that borders the sky.They stood on the loftiest mountains,And gazed on the circling spheresOf starry realms, the mystery of space,In ecstasy, rapture, and fears.They read from the grand book of nature,And traced there the finger of God,In starry ways of the fathomless deepsThat lead to man’s future abode.They communed with the mystery of ocean,Heard its billows sing grand and free,As they rose in the storm or sank to reposeIn murmuring tranquillity.And over the landscape that rolls awaySaw mountain, and river, and stream;The undulations of emerald plains,In the lights and shadows that dream.And they heard the voice of murmuring winds,And the bird songs free and wild,Till their souls were filled with subtle sweets,As nature upon them smiled.Great souls were theirs, and all things daringTo uplift their weak fellowman,Bringing light and freedom to the nationsBy the searchlights of Justice to scanThe wrong and oppression by tyrants wrought,The weak and the helpless enslaved;Counting it gain if but freedom’s causeWas uplifted and fallen man saved.
Forgotten? aye, cruelly forgotten!Passed by with looks of disdainBy the world, whose thin friendship is rotten,That honors but riches and gain.The poor are looked down upon coldly,Though grand men in poverty have died;And I assert, with just indignation,They were slain by the world’s cold pride.They struggled alone in the valleyTo win up the far heights of fame;And they pleaded but kind recognition,But you thrust them down coldly again.And you sneered at the lines they had written—Lines that shall live till time is no more—Fiery songs that light like a beaconAlong many a soul’s dark shore.And their thoughts were deep and uplifted;They soared like eagles on high,Or delved in the depths of the oceanOf knowledge that borders the sky.They stood on the loftiest mountains,And gazed on the circling spheresOf starry realms, the mystery of space,In ecstasy, rapture, and fears.They read from the grand book of nature,And traced there the finger of God,In starry ways of the fathomless deepsThat lead to man’s future abode.They communed with the mystery of ocean,Heard its billows sing grand and free,As they rose in the storm or sank to reposeIn murmuring tranquillity.And over the landscape that rolls awaySaw mountain, and river, and stream;The undulations of emerald plains,In the lights and shadows that dream.And they heard the voice of murmuring winds,And the bird songs free and wild,Till their souls were filled with subtle sweets,As nature upon them smiled.Great souls were theirs, and all things daringTo uplift their weak fellowman,Bringing light and freedom to the nationsBy the searchlights of Justice to scanThe wrong and oppression by tyrants wrought,The weak and the helpless enslaved;Counting it gain if but freedom’s causeWas uplifted and fallen man saved.
Forgotten? aye, cruelly forgotten!Passed by with looks of disdainBy the world, whose thin friendship is rotten,That honors but riches and gain.The poor are looked down upon coldly,Though grand men in poverty have died;And I assert, with just indignation,They were slain by the world’s cold pride.
They struggled alone in the valleyTo win up the far heights of fame;And they pleaded but kind recognition,But you thrust them down coldly again.And you sneered at the lines they had written—Lines that shall live till time is no more—Fiery songs that light like a beaconAlong many a soul’s dark shore.
And their thoughts were deep and uplifted;They soared like eagles on high,Or delved in the depths of the oceanOf knowledge that borders the sky.They stood on the loftiest mountains,And gazed on the circling spheresOf starry realms, the mystery of space,In ecstasy, rapture, and fears.
They read from the grand book of nature,And traced there the finger of God,In starry ways of the fathomless deepsThat lead to man’s future abode.They communed with the mystery of ocean,Heard its billows sing grand and free,As they rose in the storm or sank to reposeIn murmuring tranquillity.
And over the landscape that rolls awaySaw mountain, and river, and stream;The undulations of emerald plains,In the lights and shadows that dream.And they heard the voice of murmuring winds,And the bird songs free and wild,Till their souls were filled with subtle sweets,As nature upon them smiled.
Great souls were theirs, and all things daringTo uplift their weak fellowman,Bringing light and freedom to the nationsBy the searchlights of Justice to scanThe wrong and oppression by tyrants wrought,The weak and the helpless enslaved;Counting it gain if but freedom’s causeWas uplifted and fallen man saved.
Fought June 6th, 1813. American Force, 3,000; British, 700.Captured 4 Guns, 100 Prisoners, and both the American Generals,Chandler and Winder.
Forward, into the midnight,Silently, stealthily go,—Forward, noble “seven hundred,”Like a storm burst on the foe!Not theirs to falter or murmur,But silently to obey;And they move like phantoms forwardThrough the shadows dim and gray.Only the signal’s given,Never a spoken word;But their dauntless hearts are burning,By passionate valor stirred.Onward, steadily onward,Moves that heroic line;Softly the night winds murmur,And dimly the pale stars shine.Pauses now the “seven hundred,”Suppressed is even the breath—A pause on the brink of midnight,The fateful hour of death!“Fire!” cried the hero Harvey,“On them a dread volley pour;”And a flash leaped bright and blinding,And burst a deafening roar.Whole ranks were stricken by itBefore that withering rain;Then through the tumult ringingBurst Harvey’s cry again:“Forward now the ‘seven hundred’;Close up firm your lines of steel;Sweep the field with the bayonet;Let the foe your fury feel.”Though the guns rained upon themA tempest of shot and shell,And musketry fiercely volleyed,And many a hero fell,They charged with a ringing cheerThrough the batteries’ fierce flame,And fell on the reeling ranksOf the foe, who all in vainAttempted to stay the sweepOf that line of deadly steel.With their torn and bloody ranksThey stagger, and they reelBackward in broken fragments,Back into headlong retreat.All hail “noble seven hundred”!Your victory was complete.Honor the men of “Stony Creek,”The dauntless, brave “seven hundred”;Long we’ll remember the noble slain.A rescued country wonderedAt the famous charge they madeUnder the dome of night,Heroically storming an army,And putting the foe to flight.
Forward, into the midnight,Silently, stealthily go,—Forward, noble “seven hundred,”Like a storm burst on the foe!Not theirs to falter or murmur,But silently to obey;And they move like phantoms forwardThrough the shadows dim and gray.Only the signal’s given,Never a spoken word;But their dauntless hearts are burning,By passionate valor stirred.Onward, steadily onward,Moves that heroic line;Softly the night winds murmur,And dimly the pale stars shine.Pauses now the “seven hundred,”Suppressed is even the breath—A pause on the brink of midnight,The fateful hour of death!“Fire!” cried the hero Harvey,“On them a dread volley pour;”And a flash leaped bright and blinding,And burst a deafening roar.Whole ranks were stricken by itBefore that withering rain;Then through the tumult ringingBurst Harvey’s cry again:“Forward now the ‘seven hundred’;Close up firm your lines of steel;Sweep the field with the bayonet;Let the foe your fury feel.”Though the guns rained upon themA tempest of shot and shell,And musketry fiercely volleyed,And many a hero fell,They charged with a ringing cheerThrough the batteries’ fierce flame,And fell on the reeling ranksOf the foe, who all in vainAttempted to stay the sweepOf that line of deadly steel.With their torn and bloody ranksThey stagger, and they reelBackward in broken fragments,Back into headlong retreat.All hail “noble seven hundred”!Your victory was complete.Honor the men of “Stony Creek,”The dauntless, brave “seven hundred”;Long we’ll remember the noble slain.A rescued country wonderedAt the famous charge they madeUnder the dome of night,Heroically storming an army,And putting the foe to flight.
Forward, into the midnight,Silently, stealthily go,—Forward, noble “seven hundred,”Like a storm burst on the foe!Not theirs to falter or murmur,But silently to obey;And they move like phantoms forwardThrough the shadows dim and gray.
Only the signal’s given,Never a spoken word;But their dauntless hearts are burning,By passionate valor stirred.Onward, steadily onward,Moves that heroic line;Softly the night winds murmur,And dimly the pale stars shine.
Pauses now the “seven hundred,”Suppressed is even the breath—A pause on the brink of midnight,The fateful hour of death!“Fire!” cried the hero Harvey,“On them a dread volley pour;”And a flash leaped bright and blinding,And burst a deafening roar.
Whole ranks were stricken by itBefore that withering rain;Then through the tumult ringingBurst Harvey’s cry again:“Forward now the ‘seven hundred’;Close up firm your lines of steel;Sweep the field with the bayonet;Let the foe your fury feel.”
Though the guns rained upon themA tempest of shot and shell,And musketry fiercely volleyed,And many a hero fell,They charged with a ringing cheerThrough the batteries’ fierce flame,And fell on the reeling ranksOf the foe, who all in vain
Attempted to stay the sweepOf that line of deadly steel.With their torn and bloody ranksThey stagger, and they reelBackward in broken fragments,Back into headlong retreat.All hail “noble seven hundred”!Your victory was complete.
Honor the men of “Stony Creek,”The dauntless, brave “seven hundred”;Long we’ll remember the noble slain.A rescued country wonderedAt the famous charge they madeUnder the dome of night,Heroically storming an army,And putting the foe to flight.
O voices! voices! mysterious voices!Why are ye haunting me evermore?Thrilling my soul with your ceaseless murmurs,Like phantom waves on a ghostly shore?And whether by day, toilstained and weary,Or when eve fades into lonesome night,Still in dreams ye haunt me like a vision,Hovering near at the dawn’s pale light.Some are soothing and laden with sweetness,And others are weary all their days.Ah, how the voices of children move me!God bless their tender, innocent ways!And the voices of old float around me,Though silenced by time’s faded years;Their feet have passed o’er the dark riverThat winds through the dim vale of tears.And the voice of the seasons, ever flowingOutward and into the void of time,Sadden my heart with their pain and losses,And the few sweet days that were divine.The voice of winds at the solemn midnight,Through realms of space as they soar on high,Chanting wild dirges o’er land and ocean,’Neath a dreary moonless, starless sky.Or caressing the beautiful summer,Sweetly asleep ’neath the silver moon;Or lightly playing o’er mead and moorland,And hills asleep in the golden noon.And the voice of the sea, the strange blue sea,As ’t restlessly ripples on the shore;Or when tempests sweep o’er its heaving bosomAnd mighty billows in anger roar.And the voice of the sphere’s silent glory,Forever sweeping the vast unknown;Revolving around some wonderful centre—O celestial centre!—Alcyone!Listen, my soul (for ’tis not finite),To a song that comes from the infinite shore,Stealing down through the far starry spaces,Repeating its rapture o’er and o’er.Sometimes ’tis as of a thousand harpers,And a thousand voices blending sweet—Can it be, my soul, that ’tis an echoOf the angels’ song at the Saviour’s feet?Sing on! sing on, ye mysterious voices!Though I can’t tell all your song would say,We may know the way of the starry spacesWhen night-time fades into endless day.
O voices! voices! mysterious voices!Why are ye haunting me evermore?Thrilling my soul with your ceaseless murmurs,Like phantom waves on a ghostly shore?And whether by day, toilstained and weary,Or when eve fades into lonesome night,Still in dreams ye haunt me like a vision,Hovering near at the dawn’s pale light.Some are soothing and laden with sweetness,And others are weary all their days.Ah, how the voices of children move me!God bless their tender, innocent ways!And the voices of old float around me,Though silenced by time’s faded years;Their feet have passed o’er the dark riverThat winds through the dim vale of tears.And the voice of the seasons, ever flowingOutward and into the void of time,Sadden my heart with their pain and losses,And the few sweet days that were divine.The voice of winds at the solemn midnight,Through realms of space as they soar on high,Chanting wild dirges o’er land and ocean,’Neath a dreary moonless, starless sky.Or caressing the beautiful summer,Sweetly asleep ’neath the silver moon;Or lightly playing o’er mead and moorland,And hills asleep in the golden noon.And the voice of the sea, the strange blue sea,As ’t restlessly ripples on the shore;Or when tempests sweep o’er its heaving bosomAnd mighty billows in anger roar.And the voice of the sphere’s silent glory,Forever sweeping the vast unknown;Revolving around some wonderful centre—O celestial centre!—Alcyone!Listen, my soul (for ’tis not finite),To a song that comes from the infinite shore,Stealing down through the far starry spaces,Repeating its rapture o’er and o’er.Sometimes ’tis as of a thousand harpers,And a thousand voices blending sweet—Can it be, my soul, that ’tis an echoOf the angels’ song at the Saviour’s feet?Sing on! sing on, ye mysterious voices!Though I can’t tell all your song would say,We may know the way of the starry spacesWhen night-time fades into endless day.
O voices! voices! mysterious voices!Why are ye haunting me evermore?Thrilling my soul with your ceaseless murmurs,Like phantom waves on a ghostly shore?And whether by day, toilstained and weary,Or when eve fades into lonesome night,Still in dreams ye haunt me like a vision,Hovering near at the dawn’s pale light.
Some are soothing and laden with sweetness,And others are weary all their days.Ah, how the voices of children move me!God bless their tender, innocent ways!And the voices of old float around me,Though silenced by time’s faded years;Their feet have passed o’er the dark riverThat winds through the dim vale of tears.
And the voice of the seasons, ever flowingOutward and into the void of time,Sadden my heart with their pain and losses,And the few sweet days that were divine.The voice of winds at the solemn midnight,Through realms of space as they soar on high,Chanting wild dirges o’er land and ocean,’Neath a dreary moonless, starless sky.
Or caressing the beautiful summer,Sweetly asleep ’neath the silver moon;Or lightly playing o’er mead and moorland,And hills asleep in the golden noon.And the voice of the sea, the strange blue sea,As ’t restlessly ripples on the shore;Or when tempests sweep o’er its heaving bosomAnd mighty billows in anger roar.
And the voice of the sphere’s silent glory,Forever sweeping the vast unknown;Revolving around some wonderful centre—O celestial centre!—Alcyone!Listen, my soul (for ’tis not finite),To a song that comes from the infinite shore,Stealing down through the far starry spaces,Repeating its rapture o’er and o’er.
Sometimes ’tis as of a thousand harpers,And a thousand voices blending sweet—Can it be, my soul, that ’tis an echoOf the angels’ song at the Saviour’s feet?Sing on! sing on, ye mysterious voices!Though I can’t tell all your song would say,We may know the way of the starry spacesWhen night-time fades into endless day.
Hopedied to-day, and I’m thinkingOf a time that never can be;And my thoughts grow strangely tenderIn asking and praying for thee.Thou’st turned away from my pleadingThe light of thy starry eyes,That rival the purest beamingOf the bluest of summer skies.Sweet eyes, that sometimes kindledWith love-light when I was nigh—A wistful and tender yearningThat mem’ry recalls with a sigh.Thy voice, so low and so thrilling,And soft as the summer windThat plays o’er the sunlit fountains,Entrancing both heart and mind.Thy face, as pure as an angel’s,Half veiled by thy golden hair,Star-gemmed with God-like meekness,So kindly, so wondrous fair!In vain, oh, heart, are thy dreamings!The flowers lie dead on the lea;The sun ’s gone down in the shadowsThat darken the dreary sea.The winds moan low o’er the hilltops,The waves sob along the dim shore;And night gathers fast in the valley—Will the day return nevermore?
Hopedied to-day, and I’m thinkingOf a time that never can be;And my thoughts grow strangely tenderIn asking and praying for thee.Thou’st turned away from my pleadingThe light of thy starry eyes,That rival the purest beamingOf the bluest of summer skies.Sweet eyes, that sometimes kindledWith love-light when I was nigh—A wistful and tender yearningThat mem’ry recalls with a sigh.Thy voice, so low and so thrilling,And soft as the summer windThat plays o’er the sunlit fountains,Entrancing both heart and mind.Thy face, as pure as an angel’s,Half veiled by thy golden hair,Star-gemmed with God-like meekness,So kindly, so wondrous fair!In vain, oh, heart, are thy dreamings!The flowers lie dead on the lea;The sun ’s gone down in the shadowsThat darken the dreary sea.The winds moan low o’er the hilltops,The waves sob along the dim shore;And night gathers fast in the valley—Will the day return nevermore?
Hopedied to-day, and I’m thinkingOf a time that never can be;And my thoughts grow strangely tenderIn asking and praying for thee.
Thou’st turned away from my pleadingThe light of thy starry eyes,That rival the purest beamingOf the bluest of summer skies.
Sweet eyes, that sometimes kindledWith love-light when I was nigh—A wistful and tender yearningThat mem’ry recalls with a sigh.
Thy voice, so low and so thrilling,And soft as the summer windThat plays o’er the sunlit fountains,Entrancing both heart and mind.
Thy face, as pure as an angel’s,Half veiled by thy golden hair,Star-gemmed with God-like meekness,So kindly, so wondrous fair!
In vain, oh, heart, are thy dreamings!The flowers lie dead on the lea;The sun ’s gone down in the shadowsThat darken the dreary sea.
The winds moan low o’er the hilltops,The waves sob along the dim shore;And night gathers fast in the valley—Will the day return nevermore?