WATERLOO.
CHAPTER I.
Near Belgium’s gay capital, the long night through,
Paced the alert sentinel of Waterloo,
And through the lonesome watches beat the dreary rain,
While wandering winds sobbed o’er the darkened plain.
Through the chilling, dismal gloom of the boding night
Beat shadowy wings in a weird, phantom flight.
Two mighty rival hosts lay along the dank hills,
And the bosom of Europe anxiously thrills.
Dread moment uncertain, the stern fate of a day
To crown and uncrown, and sweep thousands away
To doom; impetuous youth and veteran gray
Must go down in the morrow’s desperate fray.
Sleep well, gallant hearts! Britain’s hope and stern pride,
Imperial France, ye have dared and defied.
The invincible clans of Old Scotia are there,
And the manhood of Erin, so gallant and fair;
England’s noblest and best, in quiet repose,
Resistless in battle, the dread of their foes.
Slumber on, brave, true hearts! rapt in tenderest dreams
Of Scotland’s grand highlands, and lowlands, and streams;
Of Erin’s green isle, and her rivers and rills,
Her lakes that reflect back the sunny-clad hills;
Of old England’s green lanes by meadow and vale—
Heroic, fair land! rich in romance and tale.
Noble trinity! indissoluble, beautiful, brave,
The morrow brings victory, or death and the grave.
Aye, sleep on, then, sleep on, for never again
May ye reach the old homestead! And alas, all in vain
The loved ones may anxiously wait there for you—
Their warm hearts were breaking when they bade you adieu.
But ye’re here in true manhood to guard England’s glory,
And all time shall ring with the immortal story.
Hark! ’tis the bugle and the slogan’s fierce cry,
Piercing the dawn e’er its gray shadows fly.
Repeat it again! how it wakens and thrills!
Ha! ’tis answered defiantly from those southern hills,
And a marshalling host in the pale dawn uprose,
The divisions of France, most gallant of foes.
But the Duke is alert, and draws up for the storm
Two lines of foot; and at intervals forms
The horse in the rear in a stern, stately array,
To calmly abide the coming affray.
The guns of the Duke frown down from the hills,
And his intrepid soul with sure confidence thrills.
His reserves are formed up near Mont St. Jean,
His centre the Brussels road is lying between;
And thus, with his grand dispositions complete,
He dares e’en the genius of Napoleon to meet.
And grand dispositions the Emperor, too, made,
And his lines of hills were sternly arrayed
With masses of infantry in contiguous lines;
And supporting columns with skill he combines
With his famous cavalry at intervals in rear,
Divisions of uhlan, dragoon, and cuirassier.
His splendid artillery crown the heights everywhere,
And for the pending struggle they coolly prepare.
With his right on Planchenoit, his left lapping Merc Braine,
An imposing front is presented. And there plain,
Near La Belle Alliance, his reserves can be seen;
The “Old Guard” and the “Young Guard” in column between
Divisions of horse, and steel-clad cuirassiers,
And the Emperor they greet with vives and cheers.
On the Charleroi road he now takes his post,
From the centre to direct this magnificent host.
A brilliant staff is there grouped by his side,
And the “soldier of destiny” beams on them in pride.
Thus with two lines of heights, with death’s valley between,
And the calmness of summer, of meadow and stream,
Napoleon is there where his proud eagles wave,
The genius of France seeks her glory to save.
But Wellington waits where the red banners stream:
The Lion is roused by the Eagle’s fierce scream,
And like eagles they hover to fall on their prey,
Poised for the swoop, for a dread moment at bay.