Thus ended the Walcheren Expedition. It was my first campaign in the service, and although attended with some trouble, and a great deal of danger, I remember even its worst passages with pleasure; for they were associated with my morning of life, and as such have become subjects of sweet recollection to me now. My troubles, on the whole, were nearly counterbalanced by gentle contingencies. The life of a campaigner would be a dreary picture indeed, if some relief were not thrown into it by the light of the heart: and seldom, thank Heaven! has there occurred a scene in my military panorama where I could not find a gleam. Whence comes the brightest? From woman's eyes. A soldier is nothing without his lass—his life reads badly—cold, dull, and monotonous. But this, gentle reader, was not my case; enthusiastic, imaginative, ready to adore every thing sentimental, or romantic, how could I avoid the flowery way? I did fall in love—as every young officer should do, who knows his duty; and the first decided symptom of my derangement, was the following poetical fit which seized me as soon as I found I was no more in Walcheren.
The gun is fired, the signal blue
Floats from the mast—adieu! adieu!
Flow'r of the flow'rs! smile of the smiles!
Gem of the Zelander's sandy isles!
O! many a time will I turn to thee,
In fond and faithful memory.
Though pleasure over my path may shine,
'Twill only remind me of thee and thine—
Though sorrow may haunt me, yet 'twill be
The sharpener of what I lost in thee.
For ever, for ever, my heart will remember
The stormy birth of our own September.
When down on my head fell sheets of rain,
And the lightning lash'd the gloomy plain:
As if the Heav'ns were repeating that night,
(What that day we had done) the terrible fight.[14]
For, Sweet, in that hour of tempest I met thee,
And felt, even then, I could never forget thee.
Oh! thy gentle looks, and thy pitying sighs,
Put an end to the rage of the roaring skies;
And thy father, thy home, and thine own sweet smile,
Made me love the Zelander's sandy isle.
How quick, how quick, did the moments flee!
O! their beautiful wings were made by thee.
How fair—how fair was each morning's light;
For thou wert there—so bright—so bright!
But one—the last—was bleak and dark—
Oh! it dawn'd in mist on my home-bound bark—
I cannot help thinking it seem'd to be
A gloomy omen of destiny.
Yes, while I live, shall my soul remember
The stormy birth of our own September;
For thou shalt be as a lovely tree,
Fresh blooming within my memory—
For ever budding beautiful leaves
To cheer the waste over which it waves.
JOURNAL OF A CAMPAIGN AT THE
HORSE-GUARDS.
Laurea flaminibus, quæ toto perstitit anno,
Tollitur, et frondes sunt in honore novæ.
Ovid.
April 1st. Proceeded by forced marches from Chatham, to Charing-cross. Halted for the night, and ordered a double ration of rum.
2nd. Took up a position in the Strand, my right leaning on the Hungerford, my left on the Wheatsheaf-tavern. Reconnoitred the enemy, found him in strong force, and entrenched; flanked by the Treasury on the right, and, on the left, by the War-office. Wavered a little, but thought of Waterloo, Salamanca, and the storming of Badajoz.
3rd. Sent out spies.—Bad news—approaches of the enemy's entrenchments almost inaccessible. Reconnoitred the rear of his position, in disguise—narrow escape of being cut off by the Adjutant-general.