The admiring people who beheld its march Stores, treasure and artillery, in the wreck Left to the fierce pursuer, horse and man Here ere they reach'd their ships, they turn'd at bay. Had seen the else indelible reproach Of England, saw the stain effaced in blood. THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE CHARLES WOLFE MOORE was buried at Coruña in the garden of San Carlos. A monument was erected on the spot in 1814. Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corpse to the ramparts we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried. We buried him darkly at dead of night, No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him. Few and short were the prayers we said, We thought as we hollowed his narrow bed And smoothed down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, And we far away on the billow! Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, But half of our heavy task was done When the clock struck the hour for retiring: And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing. Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone, But we left him alone with his glory. GEORGE III (November, 1813) WILLIAM WORDSWORTH THE long reign of George III. came to an end in 1820. Years before his death the king was afflicted with fits of madness. By 1811, his mind was so far gone that he was unfit to attend to affairs of state, and the Prince of Wales was appointed Regent. The year 1813 was one of splendid victories. Wellington inflicted overwhelming defeat on Joseph Bonaparte at Vittoria and on Marshal Soult at the battle of the Pyrenees. The frontier towns of San Sebastian and Pamplona fell into his hands, and the French were finally driven out of Spain. The English armies were now free to combat Napoleon on French soil. Now that all hearts are glad, all faces bright, And lamentably wrapped in twofold night, Whom no weak hopes deceived; whose mind ensued, Through perilous war, with regal fortitude, Peace that should claim respect from lawless might. Dread King of kings, vouchsafe a ray divine Permit his heart to kindle, and to embrace THE EVE OF WATERLOO LORD BYRON (Selected Stanzas from "Childe Harold's Pilgrimage," Canto III) THE final contest with Napoleon was fought out at Waterloo. There the allied nations of Europe brought their forces against the emperor. Wellington and the English army lay at Brussels, expecting the approach of the French, but unaware that Napoleon had come within fighting distance. Early in the morning of June 15, 1814, the attack on the Prussian encampment at Charleroi opened the great battle of four days' duration that crushed for all time the power of Napoleon. There was a sound of revelry by night, And Belgium's capital had gather'd then The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men; Music arose with its voluptuous swell, Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake again, And all went merry as a marriage bell; But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell! Did ye not hear it? - No; 'twas but the wind, No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet But, hark! — that heavy sound breaks in once more, As if the clouds its echo would repeat; And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before! Arm! Arm! it is it is the cannon's opening roar ! Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise? And there was mounting in hot haste; the steed, The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, And swiftly forming in the ranks of war; And the deep thunder peal on peal afar; And near, the beat of the alarming drum Roused up the soldier ere the morning star; While throng'd the citizens with terror dumb, Or whispering, with white lips-"The foe! They come! they come!" |