XIII.
But, lo! where yonder, what approaching train,
Wrapt in a cloud of smoke, obscure the plain?—
’Tis they!—’tis they!—the long-expected force,
’Tis godlike Blücher rolls his sweeping course;—
’Tis Bulow, dreadful thunderbolt of war,
Leads Prussia’s injur’d warriors from afar;
And, as they wound along the mountain’s brow,280
They hurl’d their cannon on the Gauls below;
While the red sulphur, seem’d in pride to dance,
On the broad blade, steel crest, and gleaming lance;
And, as their bright and lengthen’d squadrons roll’d on high,
They seem’d like shadowy legions, gliding through the sky.
Monarch of Gaul, what pangs of hopeless wo
Dim thy bright eye, and cross thy thoughtful brow,
Where all around thee heaps of death arise,
And Prussia’s cannon seem to rend the skies;
And where the warlike bands of Cossacks fly,290
Resolv’d to conquer, or sublimely die;—
Where Briton’s Genius rears her tow’ring head,
No longer weeping o’er the glorious dead.
XIV.
Lo! o’er the Monarch’s cheek, a gladd’ning ray
Danc’d in his eye, and bad the smile to play,
Where on the right his fav’rite legion stands,
The imperial guards, those ever-dauntless bands;
Swift in the midst his arm he wav’d on high,
“On, soldiers on, to conquer, or to die!”
Then, where the bravest of the British force,300
He leads the way, and points their angry course;
As when the stormy waves are o’er the deep,
With hope of glory on that legion sweep.
E’en their brave enemies hung back, and saw
Their stern battalions with admiring awe.
That man, to whom contending nations bow’d,
Whose iron sceptre half a world allow’d—
Whose rapid fortunes urg’d the wheels of Fate—
Whose prosp’rous victories seem’d of endless date,
Now shapes his way, and fires his daring band,310
With Vengeance’ torch terrific in his hand;
That band, in mighty deeds of arms renown’d,
With valour arm’d, as yet with victory crown’d,—
The sons of conquest, and the flow’r of France,
Who fill’d all Europe with alarms, advance.
XV.
Beneath a friendly vale the warriors pause,
And thus began the chieftain of their cause:—
“Friends, countrymen! the battle’s dubious fate,
The fate of Europe, on your arms await;
Should victory crown our efforts, then no more320
Shall war destructive waste our native shore.
The hostile league, which now appears so fast,
Will break asunder, ere a day be past;
And Wellesley, weaken’d in the dire affray,
To Gallic brav’ry, falls an easy prey.
Think of your ancient deeds! beneath your arms,
Prussia, and Austria, fled with dire alarms;
Dejected Spain, a Gallic Monarch own’d,
And soft Italia mourn’d her Sire dethron’d;
The winds of Fame your conq’ring eagles bore,330
To climes ne’er fann’d by Victory’s wing before.
These were your former deeds!—disgrace, or shame,
Ne’er yet have soil’d your laurels, or your name.
But now has envious Jealousy arose,
To blight those laurels with unnumber’d foes;
And yet they say, ’tis me!—’tis me alone!
Your king, they wish to conquer, to dethrone!
Yes!—were I dead,—proud Prussia’s ruthless hand
Would hurl destruction on your fated land;
They say, they ask not to decide your choice,340
But me depos’d, to leave it to your voice.
Yes!—were I dead,—their haughty pow’r would place
Upon your throne th’ accursed Bourbon race.
Say, will you have the idiot-line again,
The mock of Europe, o’er your realms to reign?
No! I can see in each indignant face,
Your scorn, your hatred of the lawless race.
A people’s voice, the voice of half a world,
Rais’d me from whence that tyrant race was hurl’d;
And since that time, my reign or ill, or well,350
Let Gallia’s wealth—let Gallia’s conquest tell.
But on the features of each ardent face,
Your fire impetuous for the war I trace,—
Go then, my countrymen! no more restrain
Your native ardour from the glorious plain—
Go with fresh laurels still to gild your name,
To track the path of Honour and of Fame!—
Go, let your ancient conquests be surpast,
By this brave deed, the mightiest and the last.”
XVI.
The hero ceas’d!—but loud applauding cries,360
“Long live our Emperor!” rend the list’ning skies;
From hill to hill, the deaf’ning shouts rebound,
And Britain’s Genius trembled at the sound!
E’en vengeful Prussia, thund’ring from afar,
Dropt the red brand, and, wond’ring, ceas’d the war.
Those notes so loudly, and so sternly rung,
That ev’ry warring rank in mute attention hung!
Now slowly winding o’er the devious path,
The pride of France, direct their ardent wrath!
Not one warm bosom, felt a pang of fear—370
No colder throbbing, check their bold career!
So gladly stern, they bend their awful way,
They seem’d to think their conquest sure that day.
Sudden a band of Brunswick’s sons appear,
High in the air, their scathing swords they rear;
And dare to extend the death-arousing hand,
’Gainst Europe’s dread—Napoléon’s favour’d band:
Vain are their force!—the eye can scarce survey
What heaps the Gauls, exulting, swept away!
Again, in that dread hour, proud Victory spread380
Her ample pinions o’er Napoléon’s head;
In cold anxiety, he views from far,
Screen’d by the vale, th’ achievements of the war.