XIV.

Then,Wellington! thy piercing eyeThis crisis caught of destiny—The British host had stoodThat morn ’gainst charge of sword and lanceAs their own ocean-rocks hold stance,But when thy voice had said, “Advance!”They were their ocean’s flood.—O Thou, whose inauspicious aimHath wrought thy host this hour of shame,Think’st thou thy broken bands will bideThe terrors of yon rushing tide?Or will thy Chosen brook to feelThe British shock of levell’d steel?Or dost thou turn thine eyeWhere coming squadrons gleam afar,And fresher thunders wake the war,And other standards fly?—Think not that in yon columns, fileThy conquering troops from distant Dyle—Is Blucher yet unknown?Or dwells not in thy memory still,(Heard frequent in thine hour of ill)What notes of hate and vengeance thrillIn Prussia’s trumpet tone?—What yet remains?—shall it be thineTo head the reliques of thy lineIn one dread effort more?—The Roman lore thy leisure loved,And thou can’st tell what fortune provedThat Chieftain, who, of yore,Ambition’s dizzy paths essay’d,And with the gladiators’ aidFor empire enterprized—He stood the cast his rashness play’d,Left not the victims he had made,Dug his red grave with his own blade,And on the field he lost was laid,Abhorr’d—but not despised.

But if revolves thy fainter thoughtOn safety—howsoever bought,Then turn thy fearful rein and ride,Though twice ten thousand men have diedOn this eventful day,To gild the military fameWhich thou, for life, in traffic tameWilt barter thus away.Shall future ages tell this taleOf inconsistence faint and frail?And art thou He of Lodi’s bridge,Marengo’s field, and Wagram’s ridge!Or is thy soul like mountain-tide,That, swell’d by winter storm and shower,Rolls down in turbulence of powerA torrent fierce and wide;’Reft of these aids, a rill obscure,Shrinking unnoticed, mean, and poor,Whose channel shows display’dThe wrecks of its impetuous course,But not one symptom of the forceBy which these wrecks were made!

Spur on thy way!—since now thine earHas brook’d thy veterans’ wish to hear,Who, as thy flight they eyed,Exclaimed,—while tears of anguish came,Wrung forth by pride and rage and shame,—“Oh that he had but died!”But yet, to sum this hour of ill,Look, ere thou leav’st the fatal hill,Back on yon broken ranks—Upon whose wild confusion gleamsThe moon, as on the troubled streamsWhen rivers break their banks,And, to the ruin’d peasant’s eye,Objects half seen roll swiftly by,Down the dread current hurl’d—So mingle banner, wain, and gun,Where the tumultuous flight rolls onOf warriors, who, when morn begun,Defied a banded world.

List—frequent to the hurrying rout,The stern pursuers’ vengeful shoutTells, that upon their broken rearRages the Prussian’s bloody spear.So fell a shriek was none,When Beresina’s icy floodRedden’d and thaw’d with flame and blood,And, pressing on thy desperate way,Raised oft and long their wild hurra,The children of the Don.Thine ear no yell of horror cleftSo ominous, when, all bereftOf aid, the valiant Polack left—Aye, left by thee—found soldier’s graveIn Leipsic’s corpse-encumber’d wave.Fate, in these various perils past,Reserved thee still some future cast:—On the dread die thou now hast thrown,Hangs not a single field alone,Nor one campaign—thy martial fame,Thy empire, dynasty, and name,Have felt the final stroke;And now, o’er thy devoted headThe last stern vial’s wrath is shed,The last dread seal is broke.

Since live thou wilt—refuse not nowBefore these demagogues to bow,Late objects of thy scorn and hate,Who shall thy once imperial fateMake wordy theme of vain debate.—Or shall we say, thou stoop’st less lowIn seeking refuge from the foe,Against whose heart, in prosperous life,Thine hand hath ever held the knife?—Such homage hath been paidBy Roman and by Grecian voice,And there were honour in the choice,If it were freely made.Then safely come—in one so low,—So lost,—we cannot own a foe;Though dear experience bid us end,In thee we ne’er can hail a friend.—Come, howsoe’er—but do not hideClose in thy heart that germ of pride,Erewhile by gifted bard espied,That “yet imperial hope;”Think not that for a fresh rebound,To raise ambition from the ground,We yield thee means or scope.In safety come—but ne’er againHold type of independent reign;No islet calls thee lord,We leave thee no confederate band,No symbol of thy lost command,To be a dagger in the handFrom which we wrench’d the sword.

Yet, even in yon sequester’d spot,May worthier conquest be thy lotThan yet thy life has known;Conquest, unbought by blood or harm,That needs nor foreign aid nor arm,A triumph all thine own.Such waits thee when thou shalt controulThose passions wild, that stubborn soul,That marr’d thy prosperous scene:—Hear this—from no unmoved heart,Which sighs, comparing whatTHOU ARTWith what thouMIGHT’ST HAVE BEEN!

Thou, too, whose deeds of fame renew’dBankrupt a nation’s gratitude,To thine own noble heart must oweMore than the meed she can bestow.For not a people’s just acclaim,Not the full hail of Europe’s fame,Thy prince’s smiles, thy state’s decree,The ducal rank, the garter’d knee,Not these such pure delight affordAs that, when, hanging up thy sword,Well may’st thou think, “This honest steelWas ever drawn for public weal;And, such was rightful Heaven’s decree,Ne’er sheathed unless with victory!”

Look forth, once more, with soften’d heart,Ere from the field of fame we part;Triumph and Sorrow border near,And joy oft melts into a tear.Alas! what links of love that mornHas War’s rude hand asunder torn!For ne’er was field so sternly fought,And ne’er was conquest dearer bought.Here piled in common slaughter sleepThose whom affection long shall weep;Here rests the sire, that ne’er shall strainHis orphans to his heart again;The son, whom, on his native shore,The parent’s voice shall bless no more;The bridegroom, who has hardly press’dHis blushing consort to his breast;The husband, whom through many a yearLong love and mutual faith endear.Thou can’st not name one tender tieBut here dissolved its reliques lie!O when thou see’st some mourner’s veil,Shroud her thin form and visage pale,Or mark’st the Matron’s bursting tearsStream when the stricken drum she hears;Or see’st how manlier grief, suppress’d,Is labouring in a father’s breast,—With no enquiry vain pursueThe cause, but think on Waterloo!

Period of honour as of woes,What bright careers ’twas thine to close!—Mark’d on thy roll of blood what namesTo Britain’s memory, and to Fame’s,Laid there their last immortal claims!Thou saw’st in seas of gore expireRedoubtedPicton’ssoul of fire—Saw’st in the mingled carnage lieAll that ofPonsonbycould die—De Lancychange Love’s bridal-wreath,For laurels from the hand of Death—Saw’st gallantMiller’sfailing eyeStill bent where Albion’s banners fly,AndCameron, in the shock of steel,Die like the offspring of Lochiel;And generousGordon, ’mid the strife,Fall while he watch’d his leader’s life.—Ah! though her guardian angel’s shieldFenced Britain’s hero through the field,Fate not the less her power made known,Through his friends’ hearts to pierce his own!

Forgive, brave Dead, the imperfect lay!Who may your names, your numbers, say?What high-strung harp, what lofty line,To each the dear-earn’d praise assign,From high-born chiefs of martial fameTo the poor soldier’s lowlier name?Lightly ye rose that dawning day,From your cold couch of swamp and clay,To fill, before the sun was low,The bed that morning cannot know.—Oft may the tear the green sod steep,And sacred be the heroes’ sleep,Till Time shall cease to runAnd ne’er beside their noble grave,May Briton pass and fail to craveA blessing on the fallen braveWho fought with Wellington!

Farewell, sad Field! whose blighted faceWears desolation’s withering trace;Long shall my memory retainThy shatter’d huts and trampled grain,With every mark of martial wrong,That scathe thy towers, fair Hougomont!Yet though thy garden’s green arcadeThe marksman’s fatal post was made,Though on thy shatter’d beeches fellThe blended rage of shot and shell,Though from thy blacken’d portals tornTheir fall thy blighted fruit-trees mourn,Has not such havock bought a nameImmortal in the rolls of fame?Yes—Agincourt may be forgot,And Cressy be an unknown spot,And Blenheim’s name be new;But still in story and in song,For many an age remember’d long,Shall live the towers of Hougomont,And fields of Waterloo.

Sterntide of human Time! that know’st not rest,But, sweeping from the cradle to the tomb,Bear’st ever downward on thy dusky breastSuccessive generations to their doom;While thy capacious stream has equal roomFor the gay bark where Pleasure’s streamers sport,And for the prison-ship of guilt and gloom,The fisher-skiff, and barge that bears a court,Still wafting onward all to one dark silent port.Stern tide of Time! through what mysterious changeOf hope and fear have our frail barks been driven!For ne’er, before, vicissitude so strangeWas to one race of Adam’s offspring given.And sure such varied change of sea and heaven,Such unexpected bursts of joy and woe,Such fearful strife as that where we have striven,Succeeding ages ne’er again shall know,Until the awful term when Thou shalt cease to flow.Well hast thou stood, my Country!—the brave fightHast well maintain’d through good report and ill;In thy just cause and in thy native might,And in Heaven’s grace and justice constant still.Whether the banded prowess, strength, and skillOf half the world against thee stood array’d,Or when, with better views and freer will,Beside thee Europe’s noblest drew the blade,Each emulous in arms the Ocean Queen to aid.Well art thou now repaid—though slowly rose,And struggled long with mists thy blaze of fame,While like the dawn that in the orient glowsOn the broad wave its earlier lustre came;Then eastern Egypt saw the growing flame,And Maida’s myrtles gleam’d beneath its ray,Where first the soldier, stung with generous shame,Rivall’d the heroes of the wat’ry way,And wash’d in foemen’s gore unjust reproach away.Now, Island Empress, wave thy crest on high,And bid the banner of thy Patron flow,Gallant Saint George, the flower of Chivalry!For thou hast faced, like him, a dragon foe,And rescued innocence from overthrow,And trampled down, like him, tyrannic might,And to the gazing world may’st proudly showThe chosen emblem of thy sainted Knight,Who quell’d devouring pride, and vindicated right.Yet ’mid the confidence of just renown,Renown dear-bought, but dearest thus acquired,Write, Britain, write the moral lesson down:’Tis not alone the heart with valour fired,The discipline so dreaded and admired,In many a field of bloody conquest known;—Such may by fame be lured, by gold be hired—’Tis constancy in the good cause alone,Best justifies the meed thy valiant sons have won.

Stern tide of Time! through what mysterious changeOf hope and fear have our frail barks been driven!For ne’er, before, vicissitude so strangeWas to one race of Adam’s offspring given.And sure such varied change of sea and heaven,Such unexpected bursts of joy and woe,Such fearful strife as that where we have striven,Succeeding ages ne’er again shall know,Until the awful term when Thou shalt cease to flow.

Well hast thou stood, my Country!—the brave fightHast well maintain’d through good report and ill;In thy just cause and in thy native might,And in Heaven’s grace and justice constant still.Whether the banded prowess, strength, and skillOf half the world against thee stood array’d,Or when, with better views and freer will,Beside thee Europe’s noblest drew the blade,Each emulous in arms the Ocean Queen to aid.

Well art thou now repaid—though slowly rose,And struggled long with mists thy blaze of fame,While like the dawn that in the orient glowsOn the broad wave its earlier lustre came;Then eastern Egypt saw the growing flame,And Maida’s myrtles gleam’d beneath its ray,Where first the soldier, stung with generous shame,Rivall’d the heroes of the wat’ry way,And wash’d in foemen’s gore unjust reproach away.

Now, Island Empress, wave thy crest on high,And bid the banner of thy Patron flow,Gallant Saint George, the flower of Chivalry!For thou hast faced, like him, a dragon foe,And rescued innocence from overthrow,And trampled down, like him, tyrannic might,And to the gazing world may’st proudly showThe chosen emblem of thy sainted Knight,Who quell’d devouring pride, and vindicated right.Yet ’mid the confidence of just renown,Renown dear-bought, but dearest thus acquired,Write, Britain, write the moral lesson down:’Tis not alone the heart with valour fired,The discipline so dreaded and admired,In many a field of bloody conquest known;—Such may by fame be lured, by gold be hired—’Tis constancy in the good cause alone,Best justifies the meed thy valiant sons have won.

Note I.

The peasant, at his labour blithe,Plies the hook’d staff and shorten’d scythe.—P. 195.

The reaper in Flanders carries in his left hand a stick with an iron hook, with which he collects as much grain as he can cut at one sweep with a short scythe, which he holds in his right hand. They carry on this double process with great spirit and dexterity.

Note II.

Pale Brussels! then what thoughts were thine.—P. 203.

It was affirmed by the prisoners of war, that Buonaparte had promised his army, in case of victory, twenty-four hours plunder of the city of Brussels.

Note III.

“Confront the battery’s jaws of flame!“Rush on the levell’d gun!”—P. 204.

The characteristic obstinacy of Napoleon was never more fully displayed than in what we may be permitted to hope will prove the last of his fields. He would listen to no advice, and allow of no obstacles. An eye-witness has given the following account of his demeanour towards the end of the action:—

“It was near seven o’clock; Buonaparte, who, till then, had remained upon the ridge of the hill whence he could best behold what passed, contemplated, with a stern countenance, the scene of this horrible slaughter. The more that obstacles seemed to multiply, the more his obstinacy seemed to increase. He became indignant at these unforeseen difficulties; and, far from fearing to push to extremities an army whose confidence in him was boundless, he ceased not to pour down fresh troops, and to give orders to march forward—to charge with the bayonet—to carry by storm. He was repeatedly informed, from different points, that the day went against him, and that the troops seemed to be disordered; to which he only replied,—‘En avant! en avant!’

“One general sent to inform the Emperor that he was in a position which he could not maintain, becauseit was commanded by a battery, and requested to know, at the same time, in what way he should protect his division from the murderous fire of the English artillery. ‘Let him storm the battery,’ replied Buonaparte, and turned his back on the aid-de-camp who brought the message.”—Relation de la Bataille de Mont-Saint-Jean. Par un Temoin Occulaire.Paris, 1815, 8vo. p. 51.

Note IV.

The fate their leader shunn’d to share.—P. 205.

It has been reported that Buonaparte charged at the head of his guards at the last period of this dreadful conflict. This, however, is not accurate. He came down, indeed, to a hollow part of the high road leading to Charleroi, within less than a quarter of a mile of the farm of La Haye Sainte, one of the points most fiercely disputed. Here he harangued the guards, and informed them that his preceding operations had destroyed the British infantry and cavalry, and that they had only to support the fire of the artillery, which they were to attack with the bayonet. This exhortation was received with shouts ofVive l’Empereur, which were heard over all our line, and led to an idea that Napoleon was charging in person. But the guards were led on by Ney; nor did Buonaparte approach nearer the scene of action than the spot already mentioned, which the rising bankson each side rendered secure from all such balls as did not come in a straight line. He witnessed the earlier part of the battle from places yet more remote, particularly from an observatory which had been placed there by the king of the Netherlands, some weeks before, for the purpose of surveying the country.[3]It is not meant to infer from these particulars that Napoleon shewed, on that memorable occasion, the least deficiency in personal courage; on the contrary, he evinced the greatest composure and presence of mind during the whole action. But it is no less true that report has erred in ascribing to him any desperate efforts of valour for recovery of the battle; and it is remarkable, that during the whole carnage, none of his suite were either killed or wounded, whereas scarcely one of the Duke of Wellington’s personal attendants escaped unhurt.

Note V.

England shall tell the fight.—P. 205.

In riding up to a regiment which was hard pressed, the Duke called to the men, “Soldiers, we must neverbe beat,—what will they say in England?” It is needless to say how this appeal was answered.

Note VI.

As plies the smith his clanging trade,Against the cuirass rang the blade.—P. 208.

A private soldier of the 95th regiment compared the sound which took place immediately upon the British cavalry mingling with those of the enemy, to “a thousand tinkers at work mending pots and kettles.”

Note VII.

Or will thy Chosen brook to feelThe British shock of levell’d steel.—P. 210.

No persuasion or authority could prevail upon the French troops to stand the shock of the bayonet. The imperial guards, in particular, hardly stood till the British were within thirty yards of them, although the French author, already quoted, has put into their mouths the magnanimous sentiment, “The guards never yield—they die.” The same author has covered the plateau, or eminence, of St Jean, which formed the British position, with redoubts and entrenchments which never had an existence. As the narrative, which is in many respects curious, was written by an eye-witness, he was probably deceived by the appearance of a road and ditchwhich runs along part of the hill. It may be also mentioned, in criticising this work, that the writer states the Chateau of Hougomont to have been carried by the French, although it was resolutely and successfully defended during the whole action. The enemy, indeed, possessed themselves of the wood by which it is surrounded, and at length set fire to the house itself; but the British (a detachment of the Guards, under the command of Colonel Macdonnell, and afterwards of Colonel Home,) made good the garden, and thus preserved, by their desperate resistance, the post which covered the return of the Duke of Wellington’s right flank.

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FOOTNOTES:[1]Laborde’s View of Spain.[2]Papers presented to Parliament, 1810, p. 545.[3]The mistakes concerning this observatory have been mutual. The English supposed it was erected for the use of Buonaparte; and a French writer affirms it was constructed by the Duke of Wellington.

FOOTNOTES:

[1]Laborde’s View of Spain.

[2]Papers presented to Parliament, 1810, p. 545.

[3]The mistakes concerning this observatory have been mutual. The English supposed it was erected for the use of Buonaparte; and a French writer affirms it was constructed by the Duke of Wellington.

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