Mean time brave Shawe usurps the martial plain,
And spreads the field with Gallic heaps of slain;
Where beams his sabre, wild confusion brings
Terror and death upon her iron wings;
A cuirass’d band of Gallic heroes saw
His martial prowess with admiring awe.
And first Bernot withdrew his wond’ring eyes,
And thus the chief with indignation cries:—150
“O friends! O soldiers, shall the Gallic name
Rest, for a moment, in disgraceful shame?
And shall you Briton, glorying from far,
Destroy our troops, and thin the ranks of war?
Frenchmen, charge forwards! and your king’s applause
Awaits your efforts in his glorious cause;
For he that sends yon haughty Briton’s head,
A worthy off’ring to the noble dead,
Napoléon’s self shall grace his radiant name,
And age to age perpetuate his fame.”160
He ceas’d;—and, warm’d by hope, his legion broke
Through fires of sulphur, and through mists of smoke[22]:
Onwards they roll’d, elate with warrior’s pride,
Each soldier charging by his comrade’s side.
To check their course, drawn up in firm array,
A gallant troop of Britons urge their way.
Those arms destructive fill their mighty hands,
The bayonet—weapon of the Anglian bands:—
They mingle!—hark! what mighty strokes resound—
What streams of slaughter dye the thirsty ground!170
IX.
De Bruyere, bending from his saddle-bow,
Aim’d first at British Eth’rington his blow.
Thirsting for blood the gleaming weapon prest,
And forceful pierc’d the Briton’s sable crest:—
He sunk!—but Beauchamp, with indignant eye,
Perceived the feat of Gallic bravery,
With bayonet charg’d, full rushing on the foe,
He pierc’d his courser with a mortal blow;—
He fell!—and Bernot, riding o’er the plain,
Trod on his crackling crest and crush’d the brain.180
Britons and Gauls now gath’ring clos’d around,
One war tumultuous shook th’ affrighted ground:
Arm rose ’gainst arm, and man encounter’d man;
Through ev’ry breast revenge and hatred ran.
At length, so fierce the Britons’ rushing force,
In vain the Gauls attempt to stop their course:
Slow they retreat!—yet, facing to the foe,
Defiance threaten, as they sternly go;
But Bernot turn’d, and wav’d his hand on high—
“Hold, cowards, hold! nor thus inglorious fly,190
What, though the fury of yon rushing tide,
Our smaller numbers vain attempt to bide;
Yet still revenge is ours, yon Briton’s hand[23]
Still gives to death the heroes of our land;
That mighty warrior, whom we lately swore,
Should wreak his fury on our troops no more;
Forward with me!—for here again I swear,
That if this arm the trusty blade can bear,
To meet this dreaded conqueror I fly,
I go to conquer—or I go to die!”200
X.
He spoke!—and wav’d his scymitar on air,
And rush’d impatient to the promis’d war.
Five Gallic warriors sharing in his wrath,
Eager pursue his devastating path;
And soon around the mighty Briton close,
And pour on ev’ry side a show’r of blows.
Ah! cease! the pitying Muse forbids to tell,
How great, in death, that gallant hero fell!
Still, undiminish’d, Gaul her numbers pours,
Vast as the sand that loads the sea-girt shores.210
E’en by their vict’ries tir’d, in heaps of slain,
Fast fall the Britons on the groaning plain.
Yet view the various fortunes of that hour,
The Anglians’ weakness, and the Frenchmen’s pow’r,
You’d find each British form, that loads the ground,
Piere’d by no backward, no inglorious wound.
And still no murmurs waste their panting breath,
When all around they see the works of death;
Still with fresh courage they demand to go,
And in their turn to charge th’ exulting foe:220
“On! let us on!” impetuous they cry,
“Not thus inglorious,—scarce opposing,—die.”
Chief of the Island sons, how great thy praise!—
How bright thy honour!—and how green thy bays!
“Wait yet, my friends,” the pitying chief would say,
“And conquest still shall be our own this day,—
Wait yet till come the long-expected force,
Till valiant Blücher speeds his driving horse.”
XI.
Yet though his words can animate the heart,
And lively courage to each breast impart,230
Still anxious doubt, though kept in wise control,
Chill’d his own cheek, and dampt his mighty soul.
If Blücher come not in one passing hour,
Full well he knew how weak was all his pow’r.
With eagle-eye the squadrons he survey’d,
And, where they fainted, sent the timely aid;—
His person, counsel, and his chiefest care,
Where most the dreadful dangers of the war,
And where, disdaining self, his form he threw,
To guard that form, invincible they grew.240
Though less thy skill, not less thy daring might,
Uxbridge! thou pride, thou bulwark of the fight!
Shew me, ye Muses of Parnassian shades,
A chief more glorious for the horse brigades—
A chief more skill’d to please th’ unconstant fair,
Or shine the first, and foremost of the war.
But by thy fire of valour led away,
A shot, at close of that tremendous day,
Mangled thy form, and drove thee from the fray.
XII.
Lo! where Hibernia pours her gen’rous train,250
Dread of her foes, and foremost of the plain;
Bright honour, and the em’rald isle, their cry,
To fall is glory—infamy to fly.
Mean time, brave Orange, mightiest of his name,
Spreads desolation o’er the field of Fame.
Great Prince! who, midst the thickest of the strife,
Led on by native ardour, risk’d his life.
Encompass’d round, amidst the hostile lines,
Th’ heroic youth his liberty resigns:
A Belgian troop rush timely in, to save260
The gallant chieftain from an early grave.
The brilliant gem, th’ insignia’s regal pride,
That matchless hero from his form untied,
With grateful ardour, midst the martial crew,
The signs of birth and royalty he threw.
“Long live our Prince! long live our martial Lord!”
Shout Belgia’s hardy sons, with one accord;
“Come life, come death, this token we will shield,
Through all the dangers of the dreadful field.”269
Then where their ranks the tow’ring standard grac’d,
With pride exulting, the rich ensign plac’d;
Along the plain, as driving bail, they pour,
And flood the field with many a stream of gore.