CANTO I.
I.
Awake, my Muse, and o’er my trembling lyre
Breath but one spark of that celestial fire,
But one bright beam, unconscious of decay,
Which shew’d thy bard Parnassus’ flow’ry way;
Immortal Homer! for a bolder theme,
Than ever yet has rous’d my youthful dream,
The deeds of warriors, the delights of war,
And all the glories of the trophied car,
Begin Calliope!—to these belong
A more than common, more than mortal song!10
II.
Now stands brave Wellesley on the tow’ring height,
Surveys the war, and kindles at the sight;
O’er each wide rank he casts his eager eye,
Inspired by hope, to conquer, or to die.
Firm, in the midst, the British guards appear,
A band of heroes, never known to fear;
Alcides’ strength on ev’ry form we trace,
Bellona’s ardour, and Apollo’s grace;
Lions in war, possess’d of ev’ry art,
To gain the combat, or to win the heart.20
Pale Brunswick mourning for her leader slain,
Spreads her bold legions o’er the martial plain
Far on the right,—with them in numbers pour,
A race of warriors from the Belgian shore.
The haughty war-steed, glorying to bear
His noble burthen, closes up the rear.
III.
Then to the hostile hosts, who adverse stand,
The pride of France, the flow’r of all her land.
Strain’d to the left he casts his eager sight,
Where the proud eagle rears her tow’ring height;30
These hardy troops, Napoléon’s brother led,
While to the right Lobau’s brave squadrons spread.
Erlon and Reille, in warlike tumults known,
Of vict’ry hoping, in the centre shone;
Not their’s, or sportive joust, or mimic fray,—
The fate of Europe hung upon that day.
The mighty leader of each glorious band,
For the first time, in arms confronting stand;
While Vict’ry doubted which her palm might claim,
For each was equal in the lists of fame.40
IV.
Proud Gallia’s haughty eagle’s rear’d on high,
And thund’ring cannon rend the vaulted sky;
Majestic Death stalks o’er the bloody plain,
And Honour’s bed receives her heroes slain.
By thee, brave Picton, what great deeds were done,
What martial laurels grac’d thy setting sun!
In Fame’s first page, thy glorious name returned,
What tears erabalm’d thee, and what hearts have mourn’d!
Ah! how record the mighty chiefs that fell,
While peals of cannon sound their fun’ral knell!50
V.
Napoléon urg’d his ever-dauntless band,
Nerv’d was each arm, and bare each shining brand;
Flush’d was each cheek, joy beam’d in ev’ry eye,—
They seem’d to think it were a bliss to die.
“Forward, my comrades; forward speed your way,
Our guardian genius shall record this day!”
They wait no more!—the courser feels the rein
No longer check him from the warring plain.
Thirsting for blood, impatient for the fight,
The sabre glitters with effulgent light;
Rear’d by that arm, which knows no other laws,60
Than courting glory, in its chieftain’s cause.
VI.
On, as the waves, they roll their sweeping course,
Where stood the pride of Caledonia’s force:
This legion saw the mighty hosts appear,
Nor yet it felt one dastard throb of fear;
Perhaps a sigh prolong’d the lover’s breath,
As one who saw th’ approach of certain death!
Perhaps the father’s anxious love might know
One throb of feeling cross his manly brow;70
Perhaps a tear the patriot’s cheek might stain,
For that dear land, he ne’er might see again;—
Yet, if the drop of soften’d love would stray,
The warrior wip’d th’ unbidden guest away!
VII.
Slacken’d each rein, each Scottish brand was bare,
The dancing plumage kiss’d the lurid air!
Their steeds they urge—hark!—“Scotland” is the cry,
The loyal sound the echoing hills reply.
Link’d in one body, small, yet firm they go,
And charge impetuous on the yielding foe.80
Dismay’d, confounded at the glorious sight,
In vain the Gauls would claim the equal fight;
On ev’ry side their comrades strew the plain,
And heaps arise of Gallia’s mighty slain:
The useless sabre drops,—they turn,—they fly,
The serrying cannon follows through the sky.
Thus the rhinoceros, on Afric’s shore,
Hears from afar the tawny lion’s roar,
Cold tremblings o’er his giant members grow,
He flies affrighted from a weaker foe.90
VIII.
Now in full speed t’ avenge their comrades slain,
A Gallic column sweeps along the plain;
And Scotia, aided by an English band,
Against that column makes her glorious stand.
Oh, thou Calliope, inspire the song,
Which falters o’er thy suppliant’s drooping tongue.
Each adverse warrior combats hand to hand,
No other weapon than the wounding brand;
Charger ’gainst charger, man ’gainst man engage,99
Sword clangs ’gainst sword, and all is blood and rage,
Lo! in the thickest of the martial storm,
The Gallic eagle rears her golden form;
Symbol of conquest, ever known to bring
Dark desolation on her fatal wing;
At whose dread sight submissive nations bow’d,
Lord of the mighty, conq’ror of the proud:
Destructive Bird! whose iron pow’r was bore,
By Vict’ry’s gales, to Earth’s remotest shore.
IX.
But gallant Ewart, foremost of the fight,109
Saw her proud form, and mark’d her glitt’ring height.
His steed he spurr’d, and, with determin’d hand,
He grasp’d her staff, and rais’d his Scottish brand:
But brave Dubois (who held the bird of Jove)
Still kept his hold, and fierce contesting strove,
While to his left hand firm the standard clung,
Keen in his right the clashing falchion rung;
He mark’d the Briton with indignant eye,
And tow’rds the breast and downwards to the thigh
Sends the sharp blade,—but Ewart’s sword was there,
And turn’d the blow, averted, into air;120
And sudden rais’d that sword with giant force,
Full on the Frenchman’s crest he drove its course,
Pierc’d the strong helm, and clove the chieftain’s head,
Through brain, through jaws, and e’en the neck it sped;
Then wrathful drew it lukewarm from the brain,
And seiz’d the eagle from the conquer’d slain:
But, ’gainst the victor, with revengeful speed,
An hostile lancer spurr’d his foaming steed,
And urg’d his spear; but, bending from the blow,
The wary Briton disappoints the foe;130
And, ere the lancer could his falchion gain,
He stretch’d him lifeless on the purple plain.
X.
Then stern De Valence, with revengeful eye,
Perceiv’d the deeds of Scottish bravery;
Stirr’d up by vengeance, and the love of fame,
He fir’d his carbine with an hasty aim,—
But miss’d the Scotsman, though not vainly sped,
It pierc’d immortal Campbell’s plumy head.
And could not worth, and could not valour save
The great, the godlike Campbell from the grave?140
Yet is thy death reveng’d,—for Ewart’s blade
Sent thy dark murderer to appease thy shade;
And he the bird of Jove victorious bore,
Red with the streams of its defender’s gore.
XI.
Here Mars, terrific, wheel’d his iron car,
And stirr’d the fight, and gloried in the war;
No modern field could ever yet behold
A fight so slaught’rous, and a war so bold.
The steel-clad Gaul derides the gath’ring storm,
Which pours in torrents o’er his warlike form;150
Yet, though his breast the pond’rous cuirass shield,
His slaughter’d limbs bestrew the bloody field.
Each seem’d resolv’d the victor’s prize to claim,
Each seem’d resolv’d to live, or die, in fame.
But nought could stop the firm, determin’d course
Of Scotia’s strength, of Scotia’s matchless force:
Then, in that hour to Caledon so dear,
Proud Gallia learnt her mighty name to fear:
She turns—she rallies—then again we view
Her numbers fly;—the gallant Scots pursue!160
Yet was that victory bought by many a tear,
O’er Cameron’s, Mitchell’s, and o’er Holmes’s bier;
And long th’ historian and the muse shall tell,
How bright they triumph’d, and how great they fell.
XII.
Mean time, where Hougoumont conspicuous stands,
The valiant Byng draws up his Albion bauds;
And there the hottest of the battle rag’d,—
There Gauls and Britons fiercest warfare wag’d.
As some tall rock, the Anglian centre stood,
While Saltoun battled for the neighboring wood;170
And, as the stormy waves, the Gauls roll’d on,
Led by fierce Jerome, and the sage D’Erlon.
The tubes of death sent lightning through the air;
The arm of fate, the sword of Jove, was bare.
So thick the smoke, the eye could scarce survey
What its next object in the dire affray;
Save, where the sulphur flash’d on some proud crest,
Or danc’d terrific on the steel-clad breast:
The warrior rear’d his arm,—then, sudden fell,
Nor knew who sent him to the gates of hell.180
Long was the fight, and furiously severe,
For neither host e’er felt the pow’r of fear:
Here fell the flow’r of Britain! here the pride
Of Gallia’s long-extended squadrons died!
Whose muse can sing, whose daring tongue can tell,
What heroes triumph’d, and what chieftains fell?
How many a youth, who ne’er had fought before,
Sent souls unnumber’d to the Stygian shore?
How Gauls and Britons pil’d the field with slain,
And, foes in death, still grappled on the plain?190
XIII.
But here, while Mars and dread Bellona rag’d,
And the hot conflict Gaul and Albion wag’d,
An hostile race, from Poland’s northern shore,
On Wellesley’s bands their martial numbers pour;
Skill’d in the art, a piercing death they bear,
Their native arms, the far-extending spear.
Th’ heroic Ponsonby perceiv’d the band,—
Forth from the scabbard leapt his beamy brand;
His heaving breast with indignation burn’d,
While to his troops the godlike warrior turn’d:200
“Shall haughty Poland triumph o’er the plain,
And boast her heaps of Britain’s mighty slain?
Shall Poland conquer in this glorious day,
And bear the prize from Albion’s race away?
Forward, my friends! exalt your matchless name,
And seize the moment to increase your fame!”
XIV.
Thus spoke the chief;—then drove his angry course
Where Poland pour’d her unrelenting force:
Sharing his rage, exulting in his wrath,
His troops pursue his death-awakening path.210
As, when the torrents overwhelm the plain,
And threaten ruin to the golden grain;
So, fierce with hatred and revenge, they go
And heap destruction on th’ astounded foe:
Some fly; yet some with bolder courage fir’d,
Still keep their ground, by martial rage inspir’d:
And first, dark Holstein, whom Eliza bore
To fierce Kolinskorf, on Masavia’s shore;
Another Hercules, whose mighty hand
Could awe the boldest of a modern band,220
With scornful eye, beheld the hostile storm,
Wav’d his bright lance, and rear’d his giant form;
Where rag’d the fiercest of the British force,
With pow’rful arm, he drove his sweeping course.
XV.
But Cecil, lov’d of Pallas, met the Pole,
And all the hero kindled in his soul.
His steed he spurr’d, on high his youthful hand
Rear’d the bright terrors of the blasting brand;
But Holstein saw th’ impending danger near,
With giant strength he hurl’d his weighty spear;230
Like lightning-flash, it piere’d the Briton’s side,
And life receded on the crimson tide.
Forth from the victor’s sheath the sword was bare,
Hov’ring on high, it thinn’d the ranks of war;
Ten bleeding warriors, gasping on the strand,
Proclaim’d the prowess of his mighty hand;
Terror and death attend his rabid way,
And conquest claim’d him as her own that day.
XVI.
Him Ponsonby, in arms renown’d, espies,
With raging bosom, and with vengeful eyes;240
His gory hand upon the holster hung,
Then, through the air the loud explosion rung:—
Why droops the arm which scatter’d death from far?
Why sinks the pride, the terror of the war?
Th’ unerring ball, the winds of fate have bore,
And that proud arm shall scatter death no more:
One threat’ning glance, one vengeful look he cast
Towards the foe;—that action was his last:—
Yet still in death his lurid eye-balls glare,
The fire of hate, of fierce contempt, is there;250
On his curl’d lip the scornful smile yet hung,
Still in his hand the deadly falchion rung,
O’er that pale cheek, scarce bronz’d by manhood’s glow,
Crimson’d by gore, the sable ringlets flow.
Weep Poland! weep! the bloody work is done,
In tears of anguish mourn thy slaughter’d son.
XVII.
And now, exulting o’er the glorious slain,
The troops of Ponsonby usurp the plain:
Where’er their leader’s conq’ring claymore shone,
There, may the widow make her joyless moan;260
The orphan’s wailing, and the mother’s tear;
The maiden’s anguish, and the sire’s despair;
The dying warrior’s last accusing breath,
And all the laurell’d pageantry of death;
Pursue the path their chieftain’s bloody blade
Through the thick whirl of eddying hosts has made.
And now the Poles on ev’ry side give way,
And, routed, yield the fortunes of the day:
But, warm’d by fame, exulting in their might,
Too far the conq’rors urge the conquer’d’s flight;270
And their dread leader’s[19] all-surveying eyes
Saw the rash deed of heated enterprise.
To check their unadvis’d, and hasty speed,
Across the plain, he spurr’d his foaming steed;
Fleeter than air, and swifter than the wind,
The scene of conquest soon he leaves behind.
XVIII.
A field there was, on which the lab’ring swain
Had lately sown the life-supporting grain:
Soft was the soil, by vernal showers fed,279
Damp, yielding moistures o’er the plain were spread.
By fate ordain’d, its baleful influence lay
Where the swift courser urg’d his flying way;
Light, o’er the bank which mark’d the treach’rous ground
Swift as a dart, his fairy footsteps bound.
Why stops his speed? why rolls his frenzied eye?
Why lost the pow’r, but not the wish to fly?
Why vainly strive to quit the fatal field?
With all the strength which agony can yield,
Why vainly nerve each mighty limb to strain?
Each effort binds him closer to the plain;290
The hand of fate has fix’d his master there,
And heav’n has call’d him from his bright career.
XIX.
When that dread chief perceiv’d th’ inglorious doom,
Which seem’d to sink him to a living tomb,
Pale grew his cheek, his raging eye-balls glare,
And thus, to heav’n, he offers up his prayer:—
“Oh, thou dread Pow’r, whose mighty name is bore
On ev’ry tongue, to earth’s remotest shore!
O God Omnipotent, whom all obey,299
While heav’n, and earth, and ocean, own thy sway!
Bend from thy radiant throne, incline thine ear,
Listen! oh, listen! to a suppliant’s pray’r:
Not thus inglorious, claim my fleeting breath,
But let a warrior, die a warrior’s death!”
Strong passions drown’d his voice, yet heav’n had heard
The pray’r by valour’s votary preferr’d:
Far to the right, a moving host appears,
The sunbeams glitt’ring on their hostile spears.
As some dark mist, when wintry storms arise,
Slow, spreads its influence o’er the mirky skies;310
So, (wrapt in dusk and smoke,) the distant train
Obscure the fields, and slowly sweep the plain.
XX.
Brightly the chieftain smil’d! a gladdening beam
Shot o’er his brow, his bloodshot eye-balls gleam;
Backwards his view, with haughty joy he cast
Towards the bounds his fiery steed had past;—
One sole, one fond, one faithful friend was there,—
A brother’s love had join’d the godlike pair;
From youth to manhood, grew that love sublime,
Began by virtue, and matur’d by time.320
When peace and plenty held their golden reign,
And crown’d the efforts of the lab’ring swain,
Th’ unmeasurable space they wander’d o’er
Of wisdom’s paths, of learning’s sacred lore:
But, when Bellona yok’d her iron car,
And honour call’d them to the paths of war,
Still, side by side, the youthful heroes led
Their hardy warriors to their country’s aid;
The aim of each, amidst the bloody strife,330
To scorn his own, to guard his comrade’s life.
If ’gainst the chieftain’s bosom gleam’d the spear,
The other’s arm would ward the danger near;
And, if th’ uplifted sabre of the foe
Should rise, to lay his lov’d companion low,
The mighty Ponsonby’s avenging hand,
Would smite the threat’ner lifeless on the strand.
XXI.
His long-tried friend had not o’er past the bound,
Which mark’d the limits of the fatal ground;
For when he saw the sad, untimely end
Which seem’d to wait his dearer half, his friend,340
Beneath a weight of more than mortal care,
He stood transfix’d in motionless despair;
His falt’ring tongue, with agony of wo,
Cleav’d to his mouth! his blood forgot to flow.
The glorious leader saw his mighty grief,
And, pitying, strove to give his friend relief:
The stern contempt of death, the warrior’s pride,
No more his feelings or his judgment guide;
To gentlest passions meltingly resign’d
Each harsh emotion of his mighty mind:350
Soft beam’d his lucid eye, the kindling flame
Melted to love, before a brother’s name.
With soften’d voice, and pitying looks, began
The parting accents of the godlike man.
XXII.
“Ah! more than brother, for thy gen’rous heart
Has ever shewn a more than brother’s part;
Say, my beloved, can the sobbing breath,
The ling’ring tear, put off the stroke of death?
The hand of destiny has fix’d my doom,
By heav’n allotted to a warrior’s tomb.360
Yet still my words in prophecy may say,
Death shall not call my ev’ry part away:
To late posterity, recording fame
Shall tell the triumphs that adorn my name.
Check then, O chosen of my soul, the tear
Which mourns my path to Honour’s proudest bier;
Accept a short, a last farewell, ere death
Has chill’d my tongue, or claim’d my fleeting breath.”
‘Hold!’ cried the youth; but thus the chief pursued,
While with fond eyes, his dearer self he view’d:370
“Back to my wife, her lovely image bear,
Torn from that heart which only beats for her.
Ah! check the orphan’s tear, the widow’s sigh,
Tell them, the lot of mortals is to die!”
XXIII.
Then drew a portrait from his manly breast,
And to his lips th’ unconscious image prest,
Gave it one sad, one ling’ring, last adieu,
Then to his friend the precious token threw:
“Fly, fly, my friend, ere yet it be too late,379
E’en now approach the vengeful troops of fate.”
‘Die will I first,’ the faithful youth replies,
While love courageous sparkles in his eyes;
His steed he struck; his clanging arms rebound,
The charger speeds him to the fatal ground,
Close by the chieftain’s side: a smile as bright
As erst o’er Chrishna shot its dazzling light[20],
Flash’d o’er that pallid cheek with brilliant glow,
Like sunshine beaming o’er an heap of snow.
‘Living, or dead, no earthly hand shall part
The ties that bind thee to this constant heart.’390
No more he could;—he scarce could bare his brand,
When down impetuous pour’d the hostile band.
They saw the swampy marsh the chiefs that held,
Nor dar’d, incautious, leap the fatal field,
But from afar, their flying weapons pour,
A glitt’ring tempest, and an iron show’r.
XXIV.
Pierc’d by seven mortal wounds, oppress’d, at length,
Spite of his valour, struggles, and his strength,
All hurl’d upon his godlike form from far,
Sinks first the bulwark of the British war.400
Thus falls the lion in the treach’rous snare,
Which o’er the woods the Lybian youths prepare,
Sunk by a grove of darts, he strives in vain,
And falls at last, invincible, though slain.
Cold grew his comrade’s cheek! for wild despair,
And frenzied wo, and agony, was there.
Sprung from his flound’ring steed, with aching breast,
The lifeless hero in his arms he prest.
‘Take, O ye war-hounds! take my hateful breath,
We lov’d in life, and still we’ll join in death.’410
Swift through the air a fatal jav’lin prest,
Pierc’d through his scarf, and sunk within his breast.
One glance, expressive of contempt, he cast,
Then kiss’d his friend, and, smiling, breath’d his last.