Ready to launch themselves as chance array;
Not one of all the mustered lines escapes
When mockery’s phantom centauri the boasts
Of martial pride downtrample and dismay.
Ah, Waterloo! where scarred battalions strove
And overwhelmed each other, blood-imbrued,
Hurling their troops with savage impotence—
The conquering cavalry which o’er thee drove
Was not the one the Corsican reviewed,
Nor yet the Iron Duke with grimmer sense.