Till gentle night drew on, and that
Drew off the treacherous Ney,
For when the morning dimly broke
-The fox had stole away!

Thus much, my lads, for Quatre Bras;
And now for Waterloo,

Where skill and courage did it all,
With God's good help in view!
For we were beardless raw recruits,
And they, more numerous far,
Were fierce mustachioed mighty men,
The veterans of war.

The GOD of battles helped us soon,
As godless France drew nigh,
-It was the great eighteenth of June,
The sun was getting high,—
And suddenly two hundred guns
At once with thundering throats
Peal'd out their dreadful overture
In deep volcano notes!

Then, by ten thousands, horse and foot,
Came on the foaming Gaul,

And still with bristling front we stood

As solid as a wall:

And stout Macdonnell's Hougoumont,

The centre of the van,

Was storm'd and storm'd and storm'd-in vain,

-He held it like a man!

WATERLO0.

O who can count the myriad deeds
That hundreds did in fight?
Ponsonby falls, and Picton bleeds,

And-both are quench'd in night:

And many a hero subaltern,

And hero private too,

Beat Ajax and Achilles both
In winning Waterloo !

What shall I say on that dread day

Of Ferrier and his band?

Ten times he chased the foes

away,

And charged them sword in hand;

Six of those ten he led his men

With blood upon his brow, And weakly in the eleventh died

To live in glory now!

Or, give a stave to Shaw the brave,
-In death the hero sleeps,-

Hemm'd by a score, he knock'd them o'er,
And hewed them down in heaps;

Till, wearied out, the lion stout,

Beset as by a pack

Of hungry hounds, fell full of wounds,

But none upon his back!

And Halkett then before his men

Dash'd forward and made prize (While both the lines for wonderment Could scarce believe their eyes)

403

Of a gaily plumed French general
Haranguing his array!

-But Halkett caught him, speech and all,
And bore him right away!

Thee too, De Lancey, generous chief,
For thee a niche be found,-
Wounded to death, he scorn'd relief

Whilst others bled around:

And D'Oyley and Fitzgerald died,
Just as the day was won,-
And Gordon by his general's side-
The side of Wellington!

And Somerset and Uxbridge then
Gave each a limb to death;
Curzon and Canning cheer'd their men
With their last dying breath;

And gallant Miller, stricken sore,

With fainting utterance cries, "Bring me my colours! wave them o'er

Your colonel till he dies !"

Then furious wax'd the Emperor

That Britons wouldn't run,

"Les bêtes, pourquoi ne fuient-ils pas?
Et donc, ce Vellington ?"

But "Vellington" still holds his own
For eight red hours and more,

Why comes not Marshal Blucher down?
-Ha!-there's his cannons' roar,-

WATERLOO.

405

"Up, Guards, and at them! Charge!"—the word

Like forked lightning passes,

And lance and bayonet and sword

Rush on in glittering masses!

Back, back, the surging columns roll

In terrified dismay,

And onward shout against the rout

The conquerors of the day!

O now the tide of battle,

Is turn'd to seas of blood,
When case and grape-shot rattle
Among the multitude,
And Fates led on by Furies,
Destroy the flying host,

And Chaos, mated with Despair,
Makes all the lost most lost!

Woe, woe! thou caitiff-hero,

Thou Emperor-and slave,
Why didst not thou, too, nobly bleed
With those devoted brave?

No, no, the recreant's thought was self,
And "Sauve qui peut !" his cry,

And verily at Waterloo

Did Great Napoleon die!

He died to fame, while yet his name
Was on ten thousand tongues,
That trusted him, and pray'd to him,

And-cursed him for their wrongs!

O noble souls! Imperial Guard,

Had your chief been but true,

Ye would have stood and stopp'd the rout At crushing Waterloo !

Still as they fled from Wellington
To Blucher's arms they flew ;
These two made up the Quatre Bras
To clutch a Waterloo !

Ha! Blucher's Prussian vengeance

Was fully sated then,

When hated France upon the field
Left forty thousand men.

Thus, comrades, hath a soldier told
What Wellington's calm skill,
When help'd by troops of British mould

And God's Almighty will,
Against a Veteran triple force,

On battle-field can do:

Then, three times three for Wellington,
The Prince of Waterloo !

A DIRGE FOR WELLINGTON.

A VOICE of lamentation

From the islands of the Sea !

Alas, thou sorrowing Nation,

Bereaved-alas for thee!