Canadian Battlefields, and Other Poems

by J. R. Wilkinson

CHAPTER II.

Dread moment! there waiting the burst of the storm;
And the bravest of hearts are anxiously torn.
Yet o’er the fierce grandeur of that famous scene
Shone the peaceful June sunlight mild and serene.
Ha! from the left of the French, in splendid array,
Comes the opening attack of the fateful day!
Downward and onward, gaily, steadily before
The batteries’ fierce flashing and opening roar!
Prince Jerome, their great leader, shouts “Forward! Avaunt!”
And presses sternly the attack on stout Hougomont.
But the position is held by intrepid souls;
Though the valor of France upon them rolls
In fiery masses, assaulting on every side,
The Guards stand firm there in unconquerable pride.

All through the red carnage of that dreadful day,
They held the divisions of France at bay.
Though thundered and stormed at, and torn by balls,
They hold Hougomont with its blood-stained walls;
Though heaped and pent with Ponsonby’s gallant slain,
The gory sacrifice there hath not been in vain.

Now tremble the hills by the bellowing thunder
Of the raging batteries, rending asunder
The grand advancing lines, or the devoted square,
And the charging squadrons, that so sorely fare
By the storms of fierce shot that around them fell,
Withering as the consuming red jaws of hell!

The British right wing had been fiercely assailed,
But the desp’rate assault had signally failed.
The Emperor’s favorite move ’s now brought to play,
To pierce the Duke’s centre and hold Blucher at bay.
For this four gallant columns of infantry form,
With Kellermann’s squadrons in support of the storm,
And seventy-four field guns to rend the Duke’s squares.
None there of success or of vict’ry despairs!
Three resounding cheers for the Emperor they gave,
And for their leader Ney, “the bravest of the brave,”
And majestically descend the southern hills,
While admiration the lines of Britain thrills.

Onward, right onward, with firm measured gait,
Gaily and confidently to their impending fate.
But the British guns thunder down on them once more,
Tearing and rending to their incessant roar.
But Ney gains the ridge, and the cowed Belgians fly
Disgracefully before his column’s loud cry.
But men more worthy of the name are found near,
Grim and determined, and devoid of all fear.

Picton! the dauntless, immortal, grand fiery soul,
Will here bar the way to the gallant, onward roll
Of Ney. He deploys two brigades into line two deep,
And prepares the swift advancing columns to sweep.
Then a deadly volley on the grand foe they pour,
Rending their proud ranks as through them it tore.
“Forward with the bayonet, charge home without fear!”
Shouts the hero, Picton, and there bursts a wild cheer
From the British line as it falls fierce on the foe,
That, confused, reels back to the valley below.

Now the Duke hurls on them a cavalry brigade;
And, oh, the result of the wild charge they made!
Cutting down whole battalions of dismayed Gauls;
And to Picton’s proud prowess there instantly falls
Two thousand prisoners. Then charge forward once more!
To the guns, to the guns that bellow and roar!
And they reach them, and sabre the French gunners there—
And Ney’s mighty columns are filled with despair.
His supporting guns are made useless for the day,
And those valiant troopers ride proudly away.
But they ventured too far ’mid elation and cheers,
And are charged in return by Milhaud’s cuirassiers.
Blown by the desperate work they had done,
’Twas wise to decline, and the encounter to shun.
Thus Ney’s splendid attack completely failed,
Though four to one to the stern foe he assailed.
But in repelling this great attack Picton fell,
The intrepid commander all loved so well.
And Britain will hold him in remembrance dear—
Noble soldier! Britain’s hero! a soul without fear!

CHAPTER III.

Now far on the horizon the Prussians appear;
The Emperor cries, “Grouchy is coming, is near.”
This to reanimate his divisions once more,
By repeated reverses grown doubtful and sore.
The cuirassiers are advancing with Milhaud again,
And columns on the left of the Duke fall in vain.
All along the vast lines falls fast the iron rain,
And the pale dead by thousands encumber the plain.
Grand cavalry charges sweep “death’s valley” between—
Like fatal whirlwinds of wrath they glitter and gleam.
Crashing volleys from the steadfast infantry pour,
And from both lines of torn hills the guns madly roar.
Vast clouds of sulphurous smoke shroud the scene,
And the wounded by thousands in agony scream!