WELLINGTON's troops encountered the French at Waterloo, a village in the neighborhood of Brussels. In the crisis of the battle, the steadiness of the English infantry won the day. The musketeers stood their ground unmoved until the French cavalry had advanced to within forty yards of their line, and then they opened a withering fire.
Pale Brussels! then what thoughts were thine,
When ceaseless from the distant line
Continued thunders came!
Each burgher held his breath, to hear
These forerunners of havoc near,
Of rapine and of flame.
What ghastly sights were thine to meet,
When rolling through thy stately street,
The wounded showed their mangled plight
In token of the unfinished fight,
And from each anguish-laden wain
The blood-drops laid thy dust like rain!
How often in the distant drum
Heardst thou the fell Invader come,
While Ruin, shouting to his band,
Shook high her torch and gory brand!
Cheer thee, fair City! From yon stand,
Impatient, still his outstretched hand.
Points to his prey in vain.
While maddening in his eager mood,
And all unwont to be withstood,
He fires the fight again.
"On! on!" was still his stern exclaim;
"Confront the battery's jaws of flame!
Rush on the levelled gun!
My steel-clad cuirassiers, advance!
Each Hulan forward with his lance,
My Guard-my Chosen-charge for France,
France and Napoleon!"
Loud answered their acclaiming shout,
Greeting the mandate which sent out
Their bravest and their best to dare
The fate their leader shunned to share.
But He, his country's sword and shield,
Still in the battle front revealed,
Where danger fiercest swept the field,
Came like a beam of light.
In action prompt, in sentence brief — Soldiers, stand firm," exclaimed the Chief, “England shall tell the fight!"
On came the whirlwind-like the last
But fiercest sweep of tempest-blast --
On came the whirlwind-steel-gleams broke
Like lightning through the rolling smoke;
The war was waked anew,
Three hundred cannon mouths roared loud,
And from their throats, with flash and cloud,
Their showers of iron threw.
Beneath their fire, in full career,
Rushed on the ponderous cuirassier,
The lancer couched his ruthless spear,
And hurrying as to havoc near,
The cohorts' eagles flew.
In one dark torrent, broad and strong,
The advancing onset rolled along,
Forth harbingered by fierce acclaim,
That, from the shroud of smoke and flame,
Pealed wildly the imperial name.
But on the British heart were lost
The terrors of the charging host;
For not an eye the storm that viewed
Changed its proud glance of fortitude,
Nor was one forward footstep staid,
As dropped the dying and the dead.
Fast as their ranks the thunders tear,
Fast they renewed each serried square;
And on the wounded and the slain
Closed their diminished files again.
Till from their line scarce spears' lengths three,
Emerging from the smoke they see,
Helmet, and plume, and panoply,
Then waked their fire at once!
Each musketeer's revolving knell,
As fast, as regularly fell,
As when they practise to display
Their discipline on festal day.
Then down went helm and lance,
Down were the eagle banners sent,
Down reeling steeds and riders went,
Corselets were pierced, and pennons rent;
And, to augment the fray,
Wheeled full against their staggering flanks,
The English horsemen's foaming ranks
Forced their resistless way.
Then to the musket-knell succeeds
The clash of swords-the neigh of steeds
As plies the smith his clanging trade,
Against the cuirass rang the blade;
And while amid their scattered band
Raged the fierce rider's bloody brand,
Recoiled in common rout and fear,
Lancer and guard and cuirassier,
Horsemen and foot-a mingled host,
Their leaders fallen, their standards lost.
Forgive, brave Dead, the imperfect lay!
Who may your names, your numbers, say?
What high-strung harp, what lofty line,
To each the dear-earned praise assign,
From high-born chiefs of martial fame
To 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 run;
And ne'er beside their noble grave,
May Briton pass and fail to crave
A blessing on the fallen brave
Who fought with Wellington!
ODE ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON
NELSON died in the hour of victory. Wellington lived to serve his country in council and on the field for thirty-seven years after the battle of Waterloo. In 1852 the great general was laid to rest beside the great admiral in the cathedral of St. Paul's.
Who is he that cometh, like an honour'd guest, With banner and with music, with soldier and with priest,
With a nation weeping, and breaking on my rest?
Mighty Seaman, this is he
Was great by land as thou by sea.
Thine island loves thee well, thou famous man,
The greatest sailor since the world began.
Now, to the roll of muffled drums,
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