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.