Hark! what a peal re-echoes through the skies;
What sudden clouds of lurid smoke arise?
’Tis the hoarse sound, so fatal to the brave,
Red Death’s loud herald—patron of the grave!
Lo! what a troop of Gallia’s flow’r, who late,
Exulted wide, and scorn’d the rod of Fate,
Stretch’d upon earth, depriv’d of life and breath,390
Still sternly frowning, seem to spurn at Death!
But as one fell, another quick supplied
The vacant place, with fierce, undaunted pride;—
That pride which scorns all ties, that seem to part
The idol Glory from the warrior’s heart!
E’en if a brother, son, or father die,
They view his slaughter with unalter’d eye;
Each earthly passion from their souls had flow’n,
Or rather seem’d absorb’d in one alone,399
To grace their much-lov’d Sov’reign’s honour’d name,
To live in glory, or to die in fame!
XVII.
A band of Britons, ’neath an hollow lay,
Where Europe’s terror urg’d their rolling way,
When, close behind, great Wellesley sudden threw
His form rever’d, amid the warlike crew,
And thus indignant cries, “Till British force
Has backward drove the Gauls’ destructive course,
E’en should the hostile sabre, rear’d on high,
Destruction threaten, ne’er from hence I’ll fly.”
Of self regardless, and unknown to fear,410
Thus rush’d the hero—thus the foe’s career
To stop he sought; while, round his form belov’d,
His martial band, a matchless phalanx prov’d;
Hid in the shelving depth, a kindling flame,
Play’d round their hearts and lit the road to Fame.
Mean time th’ imperial guard, with dauntless might,
Still roll impetuous o’er the paths of fight,—
Unconscious where the fatal ambush lay,
Within its verge, they bend their destin’d way.
When, lo! a sudden voice amaz’d they hear,420
“Up, guards, attack! your ready guns uprear.”
Instant the Britons rose; the Gauls, in mute surprise,
Thought they perceiv’d the sons of earth arise;
But for surprise, or thought, not long had they,
Ere the loud volley swept their troops away.
Heaps upon heaps, that fire destructive made,
Drove rank on rank, and back’d the whole brigade;
And, whilst the wounded make attempt to rise,
Another volley echoes through the skies.
XVIII.
Where now is Gallia’s boast?—far, far around,430
Their mangled corpses welter on the ground;
Save, where a few of that tremendous band,
In stern amaze, still make their wonted stand.
But see, the Britons, with exulting joy,
Bare their bright sabres, eager to destroy;
And, breathing vengeance, sword in hand they go,
To end the conquest of the wilder’d foe;
They, lost to reason, and the mind’s control,
Sunk in despair each energy of soul:
Some instinctively fly—some idly stand,440
Yet drop the useless weapon from the hand.
So fell, in one promiscuous pile of dead,
Proud Gallia’s glory, and all Europe’s dread!
Napoléon view’d, with piercing pangs, afar,
The adverse fortunes of the fatal war;
E’en his bright talents, and gigantic soul,
Which soar’d ’bove mortals, and beyond control,
Sunk in that hour—in that eventful day,
When his lov’d troops by fate were swept away;
Fain would he rush his raging form to throw450
Before the progress of his conq’ring foe;
But Bertrand, Drouët, on the Monarch hung,
Melted to tears, and bath’d the knees they clung—
“Whither, great Sire, oh, whither would’st thou fly?
And dost thou think that thou alone would’st die?
Upon thy life, unnumber’d lives await—
On thee, depends thy native Gallia’s fate.
Think of thy safety, and if not thy own,
That of thy country, and thy infant son.
What, though to-day opposing Fortune low’rs,460
To-morrow’s sun may yet behold her ours!”
With words like these, they strive to soothe the chief,
Soften his anger, and allay his grief.
Mov’d by their prayers, that glorious chief resign’d
The dreadful purpose of his mighty mind.
Backwards one long, one lingering look he cast
Tow’rds the red place his band had breath’d their last,
Then pass’d his hand across his madd’ning brow—
“I follow, Bertrand, where you lead me now.”
XIX.
Mean time fierce Blücher, with impetuous might,470
Supports the war, and claims the equal fight;
Hill’s conq’ring banners, midst the thickest war,
Dripping red carnage, glitter’d from afar;
His ruthless Prussians, dreadful Bulow roll’d,
While Uxbridge shone the boldest of the bold;
Exulting Fame, in shouting clamours calls,
And Britain’s vengeance on Napoléon falls.
But now the Gauls are mass’d in one vast throng,
And Albion’s troops, collected, sweep along.
On each vast squadron rush, each mighty band,480
Now charge, collected, scymitar in hand.
So from some rock the gushing torrents pour,
Burst the weak banks, and overwhelm the shore:
Their mighty streams in ev’ry quarter roll,
And sweep away, whate’er their force control.
What pen can tell each hero’s deathless name,
Who spread destruction o’er the field of Fame.
Let some sublimer bard’s illustrious verse,
Their laurel’s number, and their deeds rehearse;489
How Cooke, how Maitland, Packe, and Ferrier shone;
How Ellis, Somerset, and Cairnes were known;—
How brave Fitzgerald, through the bloody fray,
Spread ruin dark, and wond’ring wild dismay.
With many a chief, whose ever-living name
No voice can tell!—except the voice of Fame!
Nor yet shalt thou, with well-earn’d laurels bright,
Be sunk, O, C . . . . .t! in oblivious night,
In that dread day thy crest refulgent shone,
A youth in years, a vet’ran in renown;
Sprung from a sire, who rear’d our nobler youth500
To wisdom, virtue, learning, sense, and truth.
Nor less thy brother’s fame, where Ganges pours
His sacred waters through the Indian shores.
XX.
But, lo! what daring Frenchman’s desperate force
Dare strive t’ oppose Britannia’s conq’ring course?
Alone, scarce arm’d, from ev’ry limb, and pore,
Dripping, a long and ghastly stream of crimson gore?
’Tis Shawe’s fierce murd’rer, by his sable crest,
And ruby crosslet glitt’ring at his breast—
’Tis dark Bernot!—the hero’s thirst of fame,510
Led his last act, to consecrate his name:
See! in the thickest of the hostile band,
Wave his dark plumes, and gleam his gory brand.
Five chiefs he strikes—and rears to strike again—
Why drops his arm?—why useless on the plain
Falls the red blade?—why sinks his plumy crest?
The streams of life no longer warm his breast!
By drop, by drop, from many a gashing wound,
As he rode on, they trickled on the ground;
Till the last streams had floated from his side,520
And life and strength had issued on the tide.