But La Haye Sainte to Donzelot’s infantry fell—
The heroic Frenchman fought there nobly and well—
Thus securing the Emperor a lodgment sought,
A strategic point for a decisive onslaught
On Wellington’s centre, that he still seeks to gain,
Where his best troops were broken, and broken in vain.
The heroic Frenchman fought there nobly and well—
Thus securing the Emperor a lodgment sought,
A strategic point for a decisive onslaught
On Wellington’s centre, that he still seeks to gain,
Where his best troops were broken, and broken in vain.
Blucher is coming! hear his guns’ opening roar,
Pressing the right of the French, now in peril sore.
The Emperor detaches Lobau’s corps complete
And Dumont’s horse this fatal new danger to meet.
But Bulow turns Lobau’s left, and Planchenoit is won
Near to the going down of the red summer’s sun.
But the Emperor checks Bulow with his Young Guard,
And for a time they gallantly keep watch and ward
O’er the right of the French, fighting desperately there—
Still hopeful, though desperately assailed everywhere.
Pressing the right of the French, now in peril sore.
The Emperor detaches Lobau’s corps complete
And Dumont’s horse this fatal new danger to meet.
But Bulow turns Lobau’s left, and Planchenoit is won
Near to the going down of the red summer’s sun.
But the Emperor checks Bulow with his Young Guard,
And for a time they gallantly keep watch and ward
O’er the right of the French, fighting desperately there—
Still hopeful, though desperately assailed everywhere.
Will the Emperor’s star of destiny go down to-day,
And his vast fabric be swept forever away?
His sun of victory set now to rise no more,
And the splendor of his dreams die on War’s stern shore?
And his vast fabric be swept forever away?
His sun of victory set now to rise no more,
And the splendor of his dreams die on War’s stern shore?
Avalanches of attack he still hurls on the foe;
Ceaselessly and recklessly they surge to and fro
All along the Duke’s firm lines, but surging in vain.
The bright valor of Britain those stern lines maintain
Unbroken by the desperate destroying strife,
Though to maintain them thousands are bereft of life.
The stratagems of a lifetime could not prevail;
His hitherto decisive moves were of no avail.
He might hurl his raging storms of grapeshot and shell,
He might thunder as the ravening maw of hell,
Hurl his cavalry en masse on the devoted squares,
Rush his infantry forward, and lay his deep snares,
Which must have ruined any other army complete,
Slaughtered, dismembered, and put to retreat;
But the Britons stood steadfast in undaunted pride,
And the legions of France they dared and defied.
And they cumbered death’s valley with the enemy slain,
Like sheaves in the ripe harvest of winnow and wain.
And thus sorely assailed near the set of the sun,
The Iron Duke exclaims, “Would that night or Blucher might come!”
Ceaselessly and recklessly they surge to and fro
All along the Duke’s firm lines, but surging in vain.
The bright valor of Britain those stern lines maintain
Unbroken by the desperate destroying strife,
Though to maintain them thousands are bereft of life.
The stratagems of a lifetime could not prevail;
His hitherto decisive moves were of no avail.
He might hurl his raging storms of grapeshot and shell,
He might thunder as the ravening maw of hell,
Hurl his cavalry en masse on the devoted squares,
Rush his infantry forward, and lay his deep snares,
Which must have ruined any other army complete,
Slaughtered, dismembered, and put to retreat;
But the Britons stood steadfast in undaunted pride,
And the legions of France they dared and defied.
And they cumbered death’s valley with the enemy slain,
Like sheaves in the ripe harvest of winnow and wain.
And thus sorely assailed near the set of the sun,
The Iron Duke exclaims, “Would that night or Blucher might come!”
The hour of seven o’clock had now been told,
Still the rage of the battle uncertain rolled.
Like gladiators of old they tugged and tore,
And gory thousands have fallen to rise no more.
The burning issues of the day are deep and wide—
Shall Europe have liberty from the despotic pride
Of Imperial France, waged by a single mind,
A genius of war, to human sufferings blind?
But his fate is approaching in the lurid gleam
Of the loud raging cannon, and the living stream
Of Britain’s deathless valor, that will never yield,
And they’ll win it or perish, this desperate field.
Still the rage of the battle uncertain rolled.
Like gladiators of old they tugged and tore,
And gory thousands have fallen to rise no more.
The burning issues of the day are deep and wide—
Shall Europe have liberty from the despotic pride
Of Imperial France, waged by a single mind,
A genius of war, to human sufferings blind?
But his fate is approaching in the lurid gleam
Of the loud raging cannon, and the living stream
Of Britain’s deathless valor, that will never yield,
And they’ll win it or perish, this desperate field.
A dark mass near La Belle Alliance is seen to form
Into gigantic columns, to drive like a storm
In irresistible fury o’er the death-strewn plain,
To o’erwhelm the Duke’s centre and cut him in twain.
They are the Old Guard and Young, twelve thousand and more,
Veterans of a hundred battles, who o’er and o’er
Had grasped victory from defeat on many a field.
Surely Britain’s array to these powers must yield.
The Emperor reserved them for a coup de main,
And he sent them forward assured they would gain
For him the victory. And their triumphant cheer
Of “Vive l’Empereur!” rose from souls void of fear.
Majestically they descend the slope of the hill,—
’Tis a sight the most stony of natures to thrill,
The elite of the French army, as onward they go,
The heroes of Austerlitz, Wagram, and Marengo.
Between Hougomont and La Haye Sainte lies their way,
Where the British await them there, sternly at bay.
Into gigantic columns, to drive like a storm
In irresistible fury o’er the death-strewn plain,
To o’erwhelm the Duke’s centre and cut him in twain.
They are the Old Guard and Young, twelve thousand and more,
Veterans of a hundred battles, who o’er and o’er
Had grasped victory from defeat on many a field.
Surely Britain’s array to these powers must yield.
The Emperor reserved them for a coup de main,
And he sent them forward assured they would gain
For him the victory. And their triumphant cheer
Of “Vive l’Empereur!” rose from souls void of fear.
Majestically they descend the slope of the hill,—
’Tis a sight the most stony of natures to thrill,
The elite of the French army, as onward they go,
The heroes of Austerlitz, Wagram, and Marengo.
Between Hougomont and La Haye Sainte lies their way,
Where the British await them there, sternly at bay.
Now with redoubled vigor their batteries thunder
On the allied lines, firmly waiting yonder,
Where the devastating missiles ruthlessly pour
’Mid the horrible din and the deafening roar
Of the deadly conflict raging frightfully there,
And the moans of the dying and cries of despair.
The drooping spirits of his lines he must reanimate,
And sends an aide-de-camp at a lightning rate
To announce that Grouchy is coming—is near—
And his divisions lift up their voices and cheer.
On the allied lines, firmly waiting yonder,
Where the devastating missiles ruthlessly pour
’Mid the horrible din and the deafening roar
Of the deadly conflict raging frightfully there,
And the moans of the dying and cries of despair.
The drooping spirits of his lines he must reanimate,
And sends an aide-de-camp at a lightning rate
To announce that Grouchy is coming—is near—
And his divisions lift up their voices and cheer.
Now from La Haye Sainte Donzelot pushes again
An avalanche of attack, like withering flame.
On the left centre of the allies, bruised and sore,
Are the stern German brigades, firm as rocks; and o’er
The din and tumult the French legions might hear
The shout of defiance and the Germans’ grand cheer.
“They’re coming! the attack will be the centre, my lord,”
Said Lord Fitzroy Somerset, waving his good sword,
And directing, as he spoke, his glass on the foe,
The advancing columns in the red vale below.
“I see it,” was Wellington’s unmoved reply,
As he ordered Maitland’s brigade to deploy, and lie
Down behind the ridge of the torn sheltering hill,
For a few moments longer restraining their will.
In front of them are formed in a firm red line
A brigade of infantry abiding their time.
On the right of the Guards is Adams’s brigade,
Waiting the dread shock as though on parade.
Stationed above, and partly upon the road,
The grim guns form up, and quickly, silently load
With grape, and await the signal there to open—
Though all hearts are aflame, not a word is spoken.
An avalanche of attack, like withering flame.
On the left centre of the allies, bruised and sore,
Are the stern German brigades, firm as rocks; and o’er
The din and tumult the French legions might hear
The shout of defiance and the Germans’ grand cheer.
“They’re coming! the attack will be the centre, my lord,”
Said Lord Fitzroy Somerset, waving his good sword,
And directing, as he spoke, his glass on the foe,
The advancing columns in the red vale below.
“I see it,” was Wellington’s unmoved reply,
As he ordered Maitland’s brigade to deploy, and lie
Down behind the ridge of the torn sheltering hill,
For a few moments longer restraining their will.
In front of them are formed in a firm red line
A brigade of infantry abiding their time.
On the right of the Guards is Adams’s brigade,
Waiting the dread shock as though on parade.
Stationed above, and partly upon the road,
The grim guns form up, and quickly, silently load
With grape, and await the signal there to open—
Though all hearts are aflame, not a word is spoken.
It is an awful moment, one to try men’s souls,
And the horrible din all about them rolls.
On the far left the Prussians are pounding away,
But the brave French fight sternly and hold them at bay.
All along our grand lines the French batter in vain,
Though the dead strew the hills and encumber the plain.
And the horrible din all about them rolls.
On the far left the Prussians are pounding away,
But the brave French fight sternly and hold them at bay.
All along our grand lines the French batter in vain,
Though the dead strew the hills and encumber the plain.
Dark masses of Guards climb the slope of the hill,
Stately columns coming on with confidence still;
Their guns cease fire as above the ridge they now show,
Tipped with the gleam of the sunset’s red glow.
Then began that cheer those who heard never could forget—
From those famed Belgian hills doth it echo yet.
From Hougomont, near the right, with its blood-stained walls,
To Papalotte on the left, it thunders and falls
In long-restrained, pent-up vengeance; and through
The true instinct that valor teaches well they knew
The hour of trial had come, when that wild cry flew
From rank to rank, as it echoed and thundered anew.
“They come! they come!” repeat it, and shout it again;
And “Vive l’Empereur!” rolls up from the plain.
Stately columns coming on with confidence still;
Their guns cease fire as above the ridge they now show,
Tipped with the gleam of the sunset’s red glow.
Then began that cheer those who heard never could forget—
From those famed Belgian hills doth it echo yet.
From Hougomont, near the right, with its blood-stained walls,
To Papalotte on the left, it thunders and falls
In long-restrained, pent-up vengeance; and through
The true instinct that valor teaches well they knew
The hour of trial had come, when that wild cry flew
From rank to rank, as it echoed and thundered anew.
“They come! they come!” repeat it, and shout it again;
And “Vive l’Empereur!” rolls up from the plain.
Preceded by a tempest of grapeshot and shell,
And a charge of cavalry that fought nobly and well,
Ney’s column fired its volley and advanced again
With the bayonet, and was met by roar and flame
Of our raging guns that now rent him through and through.
The dark columns of the Guards, as near us they drew,
Moved obliquely to the right, then on they came—
A desperate movement in a desperate game.
Adams’ brigade on their left flank’s deployed four deep,
And the dark ranks of the Old Guard they rend and sweep
By successive volleys. Hot and scathing they fell;
And the blows they delivered told nobly and well.
But though scathed and mangled, still on they came,—
A noble chivalry, to preserve a stainless fame.
All Europe acknowledges a devotion sublime
That shall live for ever in the annals of time.
Ney, himself on foot, at their fearless head is found;
Twice his leading divisions are turned around
As the destroying fire wastes and consumes him there;
But his dauntless soul knoweth no craven despair!
And a charge of cavalry that fought nobly and well,
Ney’s column fired its volley and advanced again
With the bayonet, and was met by roar and flame
Of our raging guns that now rent him through and through.
The dark columns of the Guards, as near us they drew,
Moved obliquely to the right, then on they came—
A desperate movement in a desperate game.
Adams’ brigade on their left flank’s deployed four deep,
And the dark ranks of the Old Guard they rend and sweep
By successive volleys. Hot and scathing they fell;
And the blows they delivered told nobly and well.
But though scathed and mangled, still on they came,—
A noble chivalry, to preserve a stainless fame.
All Europe acknowledges a devotion sublime
That shall live for ever in the annals of time.
Ney, himself on foot, at their fearless head is found;
Twice his leading divisions are turned around
As the destroying fire wastes and consumes him there;
But his dauntless soul knoweth no craven despair!
By the prestige of a hundred battles sustained,
The crest of the hill they have already gained.
The artillery close up; the flanking fire from the guns
On the road dismembers, slaughters, shrivels and stuns
The famous Old Guard; and with their front blown away
Can they still crush the British and thus win the day?
The Duke seized the moment and instantly cried,
“Up, Guards, and at them!” And they uprose in stern pride,
As stately as ever, aye, as ever was seen;
And the sun’s setting glory threw o’er them its sheen.
The crest of the hill they have already gained.
The artillery close up; the flanking fire from the guns
On the road dismembers, slaughters, shrivels and stuns
The famous Old Guard; and with their front blown away
Can they still crush the British and thus win the day?
The Duke seized the moment and instantly cried,
“Up, Guards, and at them!” And they uprose in stern pride,
As stately as ever, aye, as ever was seen;
And the sun’s setting glory threw o’er them its sheen.
The hour of fierce triumph and vengeance had come
At the going down of the warm, peaceful June sun.
One deadly volley on the coming French they pour,
And three hundred are death-stricken to rise no more.
Then with the bayonet they charge, knowing no fear;
On the French foe they rush with a wild British cheer.
Then came the most dreadful struggle all war can present—
Crashing columns of heroes, blood-stained and rent.
Foot to foot, and eye to eye, they stagger and reel
By the furious crash of the ringing cold steel.
Long restrained, the British are furious now,
And passionate valor burns on each stern brow.
At the going down of the warm, peaceful June sun.
One deadly volley on the coming French they pour,
And three hundred are death-stricken to rise no more.
Then with the bayonet they charge, knowing no fear;
On the French foe they rush with a wild British cheer.
Then came the most dreadful struggle all war can present—
Crashing columns of heroes, blood-stained and rent.
Foot to foot, and eye to eye, they stagger and reel
By the furious crash of the ringing cold steel.
Long restrained, the British are furious now,
And passionate valor burns on each stern brow.
And the French generals fall fast on every side:
Michel, Jamier, and Mallet have heroically died,
And Friant is sore wounded and helplessly falls;
Ney, his dress pierced and ragged and torn by balls,
Shouts to his wavering legions still to advance
Once more for the Emperor and Imperial France!
But his leading files now waver and hesitate
On the brink and the ruin of impending fate.
The British press down upon them sternly and well;
The cavalry gallop up, and at last pell mell,
Overwhelmed and beaten, the torn French fall back
O’er the winnows of slain that encumber their track.
The decisive moment of the awful day had come,
And a thrill through the grand allied ranks did run.
Michel, Jamier, and Mallet have heroically died,
And Friant is sore wounded and helplessly falls;
Ney, his dress pierced and ragged and torn by balls,
Shouts to his wavering legions still to advance
Once more for the Emperor and Imperial France!
But his leading files now waver and hesitate
On the brink and the ruin of impending fate.
The British press down upon them sternly and well;
The cavalry gallop up, and at last pell mell,
Overwhelmed and beaten, the torn French fall back
O’er the winnows of slain that encumber their track.
The decisive moment of the awful day had come,
And a thrill through the grand allied ranks did run.
CHAPTER V.
“The field is won! Order the whole line to advance.
Roll en masse on the wavering legions of France.”
Thus ordered the Duke, and a responsive cry
Of joy and glad triumph pealed up to the sky.
Roll en masse on the wavering legions of France.”
Thus ordered the Duke, and a responsive cry
Of joy and glad triumph pealed up to the sky.
On they came four deep, and like a torrent poured
From the heights; and our hot guns boomed and roared.
A fiery wave of valor they rolled on the foe,
And irresistibly swept them to the valley below.
All along our lines, from Papelotte to Merc Braine,
Rose that thund’rous cheer of great triumph again.
From the heights; and our hot guns boomed and roared.
A fiery wave of valor they rolled on the foe,
And irresistibly swept them to the valley below.
All along our lines, from Papelotte to Merc Braine,
Rose that thund’rous cheer of great triumph again.
“Let the Life Guards charge them,” here the Iron Duke said;
And a grand brigade of horse, by Lord Uxbridge led,
Rode down on the French centre, sabreing them there.
Broken and dispirited, they waver in despair.
Incessantly our cavalry charge on the foe,
Flashing and flaming in the lurid sunset’s glow;
Piercing and dismembering the French everywhere,
While the infantry press forward the laurels to share.
With the bayonet the foe they sweep from their path,
A Nemesis of fate in o’erpowering wrath.
The Prussian guns play on their right flank and their rear;
The British bayonet in front; while a panic of fear
Spreads through their wavering ranks, and the hopeless cry
Of “Sauve qui peut!” resounds from their ranks reeling by.
All in vain Marshal Ney, “the bravest of the brave,”
Soult, Bertrand, Gourgand, and Labedoyer, to save
The day, burst from the disorganiz’d mass, and on them call
To stand firm, to conquer, or heroically fall!
“For the Emperor and sunny Imperial France.
Steady the lines and re-form, and again advance.”
A battalion of the Old Guard alone obey.
With brave Cambronne at their head, between the prey
And their pursuers they form into square and stand,
A sacrifice offering ’mid the ruin at hand—
An offering to the tarnished honor of their arms
Irretrievably ruined and fleeing in swarms
Of disorganized masses before that oncoming wave
Of British valor. No earthly power can save
The lost day! Ruin’d and beaten, and drifting away
Before that magnificent advance and array
Of chivalry, worthy of “the brave days of old.”
Glorified in the sunset, onward it rolled!
Through the “valley of the shadow of death” they go,
Devastatingly rolling upon the lost foe!
And a grand brigade of horse, by Lord Uxbridge led,
Rode down on the French centre, sabreing them there.
Broken and dispirited, they waver in despair.
Incessantly our cavalry charge on the foe,
Flashing and flaming in the lurid sunset’s glow;
Piercing and dismembering the French everywhere,
While the infantry press forward the laurels to share.
With the bayonet the foe they sweep from their path,
A Nemesis of fate in o’erpowering wrath.
The Prussian guns play on their right flank and their rear;
The British bayonet in front; while a panic of fear
Spreads through their wavering ranks, and the hopeless cry
Of “Sauve qui peut!” resounds from their ranks reeling by.
All in vain Marshal Ney, “the bravest of the brave,”
Soult, Bertrand, Gourgand, and Labedoyer, to save
The day, burst from the disorganiz’d mass, and on them call
To stand firm, to conquer, or heroically fall!
“For the Emperor and sunny Imperial France.
Steady the lines and re-form, and again advance.”
A battalion of the Old Guard alone obey.
With brave Cambronne at their head, between the prey
And their pursuers they form into square and stand,
A sacrifice offering ’mid the ruin at hand—
An offering to the tarnished honor of their arms
Irretrievably ruined and fleeing in swarms
Of disorganized masses before that oncoming wave
Of British valor. No earthly power can save
The lost day! Ruin’d and beaten, and drifting away
Before that magnificent advance and array
Of chivalry, worthy of “the brave days of old.”
Glorified in the sunset, onward it rolled!
Through the “valley of the shadow of death” they go,
Devastatingly rolling upon the lost foe!
Meanwhile, near La Belle Alliance, the Emperor still
Had some regiments in reserve, biding his will;
And was rapidly rallying his beaten Old Guard,
Hitherto invincible—the watch and the ward
Of his army—the last card in the desperate play
Of the game of war, hitherto winning the day.
The remnants of his cavalry he’d collected, too,
Still hoping the British to pierce and break through.
Had some regiments in reserve, biding his will;
And was rapidly rallying his beaten Old Guard,
Hitherto invincible—the watch and the ward
Of his army—the last card in the desperate play
Of the game of war, hitherto winning the day.
The remnants of his cavalry he’d collected, too,
Still hoping the British to pierce and break through.
But the Duke’s eagle eye fathoms his useless game,
And his valiant soul is now grandly aflame
As he launches Vivian’s cavalry brigade
Against him. And oh, the immortal charge they made!
Through the “valley of the shadow of death” they tore,
And on La Belle Alliance like a torrent pour,
Sweeping all before them—cavalry, Old Guard, and all;
And like destroying angels on his reserves they fall.
Completely successful, they rode calmly back again
Proudly over the lurid, ensanguined plain!
O gallant hussars of a famous brigade,
All time shall echo the destroying charge ye made!
And his valiant soul is now grandly aflame
As he launches Vivian’s cavalry brigade
Against him. And oh, the immortal charge they made!
Through the “valley of the shadow of death” they tore,
And on La Belle Alliance like a torrent pour,
Sweeping all before them—cavalry, Old Guard, and all;
And like destroying angels on his reserves they fall.
Completely successful, they rode calmly back again
Proudly over the lurid, ensanguined plain!
O gallant hussars of a famous brigade,
All time shall echo the destroying charge ye made!
The Emperor strives his disasters to repair,
And with lightning speed rides thither, everywhere,
Commanding, ordering, imploring, but in vain.
Broken and confused, they only exclaim,
“Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!” and fly swift from the frightful field,
Despairing masses that stagger and reel
In inextricable confusion of headlong flight,
Into the gloom and darkness of the falling night.
The Emperor by his staff was now borne away,
And disappeared in the shadows dim and gray—
Disappeared, and his sun will rise nevermore;
Gone down on the “soldier of destiny” for evermore;
But on freed Europe the sun of peace doth rise,
And the acclaims of freedom peal up to the skies.
And with lightning speed rides thither, everywhere,
Commanding, ordering, imploring, but in vain.
Broken and confused, they only exclaim,
“Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!” and fly swift from the frightful field,
Despairing masses that stagger and reel
In inextricable confusion of headlong flight,
Into the gloom and darkness of the falling night.
The Emperor by his staff was now borne away,
And disappeared in the shadows dim and gray—
Disappeared, and his sun will rise nevermore;
Gone down on the “soldier of destiny” for evermore;
But on freed Europe the sun of peace doth rise,
And the acclaims of freedom peal up to the skies.
British valor all Europe never can forget;
On that “field of fields” it is flaming grandly yet,
And Wellington’s fame to posterity is given,
Through storm and tempest unsullied, unriven.
On that “field of fields” it is flaming grandly yet,
And Wellington’s fame to posterity is given,
Through storm and tempest unsullied, unriven.
Who can forget the close of that eventful day?
And the meeting there in the fading twilight gray
Of Wellington and Blucher, clasping hands again
Mutely over the heaps of wounded and slain?
Clasping hands as brothers, with hearts too full to speak,
While tears wash the battle stain from the soldier’s cheek!
Aye, that was a meeting the world cannot forget,
And the effect is lasting, it endureth yet.
And the meeting there in the fading twilight gray
Of Wellington and Blucher, clasping hands again
Mutely over the heaps of wounded and slain?
Clasping hands as brothers, with hearts too full to speak,
While tears wash the battle stain from the soldier’s cheek!
Aye, that was a meeting the world cannot forget,
And the effect is lasting, it endureth yet.
EXULTATION.
All hail, old Scotia’s invincible clans,
And the gallant sons of Erin’s green isle,
And Britain’s indomitable men-at-arms!
The genius of fair fame doth on them smile.
United, ye are e’er invincible,
A trinity that will not be denied,
The fate of imperial France at Waterloo,
The humbler of Napoleon’s despotic pride.
And the gallant sons of Erin’s green isle,
And Britain’s indomitable men-at-arms!
The genius of fair fame doth on them smile.
United, ye are e’er invincible,
A trinity that will not be denied,
The fate of imperial France at Waterloo,
The humbler of Napoleon’s despotic pride.
THE LAMENT FOR THE DEAD.
But, oh, the sight of that pent red field,
Weird and terrible for evermore!
’Mid the awful silence of the slain,
Britain’s generous heart is sore.
Though the laurels of fame crown her brow,
She mourns for her immortal slain;
Though famous fore’er and signalized,
She bows her illustrious head in pain.
Weird and terrible for evermore!
’Mid the awful silence of the slain,
Britain’s generous heart is sore.
Though the laurels of fame crown her brow,
She mourns for her immortal slain;
Though famous fore’er and signalized,
She bows her illustrious head in pain.
Thousands marshalled there that sweet June morn,
Strong and beautiful, side by side;
Eve saw them in eternal repose—
Fearless in heart they dared and died.
Play solemn dirges and bear them away,
Play them tenderly, soft and low;
Let the drum’s muffled tone fall on the ear,
Steadily, mournfully, and slow.
Strong and beautiful, side by side;
Eve saw them in eternal repose—
Fearless in heart they dared and died.
Play solemn dirges and bear them away,
Play them tenderly, soft and low;
Let the drum’s muffled tone fall on the ear,
Steadily, mournfully, and slow.
Reverently in the valley of death
Lay them away to final sleep;
Fit place to crown the immortal dead,
Where brave, true comrades o’er them weep.
Oh, soldier hearts! grand, intrepid souls!
The years thy laurels shall renew;
Britain thy devotion ne’er can forget,
On that field of fields—Waterloo.
Lay them away to final sleep;
Fit place to crown the immortal dead,
Where brave, true comrades o’er them weep.
Oh, soldier hearts! grand, intrepid souls!
The years thy laurels shall renew;
Britain thy devotion ne’er can forget,
On that field of fields—Waterloo.
THE DOVE’S SONG.
Listen! for I hear the dove’s sweet song,
So tender and mournfully sad,
Up from the vale where the maples bloom,
And the springtime e’er maketh glad.
Hast wandered afar from a fairer clime?
Was thy home in Southern bowers?
Is life more fair, and more fragrant the air,
Than in this grand Northland of ours?
So tender and mournfully sad,
Up from the vale where the maples bloom,
And the springtime e’er maketh glad.
Hast wandered afar from a fairer clime?
Was thy home in Southern bowers?
Is life more fair, and more fragrant the air,
Than in this grand Northland of ours?
Tell me, sweet dove; for thy mournful voice
Hath wakened old memories to-day
That have only slept through the weary years
That have silently flown away.
Art thou mateless and all alone, sweet dove,
That thy dear song is never gay?
Art thou calling down the emerald glades
In vain, pleadingly, day by day?
Hath wakened old memories to-day
That have only slept through the weary years
That have silently flown away.
Art thou mateless and all alone, sweet dove,
That thy dear song is never gay?
Art thou calling down the emerald glades
In vain, pleadingly, day by day?
Thy plaintive voice stirs a tenderness
Called up from the shadowed deeps,
Where a pale light flickers o’er hidden graves,
And a dream-world forever sleeps.
Surely ’tis lovely enough, sweet dove,
O’er the hills that are sunny and sweet;
And the lilies bloom in the vale below—
Nature’s sweetness lies at thy feet.
Called up from the shadowed deeps,
Where a pale light flickers o’er hidden graves,
And a dream-world forever sleeps.
Surely ’tis lovely enough, sweet dove,
O’er the hills that are sunny and sweet;
And the lilies bloom in the vale below—
Nature’s sweetness lies at thy feet.
BLINDED EYES.
The silver band was playing divinely
At the close of a perfect summer day;
And my heart in unison was throbbing,
As I brushed a tender tear away.
In the soft glow of the golden sunset
I saw two poor blinded eyes upturned
To the purpling skies, so fair and deep,
And my soul with sympathy yearned.
At the close of a perfect summer day;
And my heart in unison was throbbing,
As I brushed a tender tear away.
In the soft glow of the golden sunset
I saw two poor blinded eyes upturned
To the purpling skies, so fair and deep,
And my soul with sympathy yearned.
He had caught the tender, passionate strains,
Swelling and dreamily dying away,
As wave after wave sweetly rose and fell,
The soul welling up in immortal lay.
The light softly fell on his blinded eyes,
And over his speaking and careworn face
Stole a holy light unutterable;
A glow of ecstasy there I could trace.
Swelling and dreamily dying away,
As wave after wave sweetly rose and fell,
The soul welling up in immortal lay.
The light softly fell on his blinded eyes,
And over his speaking and careworn face
Stole a holy light unutterable;
A glow of ecstasy there I could trace.
His soul was attuned to melodious strains.
What he saw through his weary sightless eyes
I never may know; but surely it was
A glimpse of the heavenly paradise.
For surely God’s pity is reaching down
To the help of the poor and sightless here;
And He takes the poor groping toil-worn hands,
And points the way to the heavenly sphere.
What he saw through his weary sightless eyes
I never may know; but surely it was
A glimpse of the heavenly paradise.
For surely God’s pity is reaching down
To the help of the poor and sightless here;
And He takes the poor groping toil-worn hands,
And points the way to the heavenly sphere.
The sun went down, and the sad shadows came
Merging into the dreamy, soft twilight;
The music ceased, and we stole away
Into the deepening gloom of night.
And in the dream and mystery of life
We move along on our separate ways;
But the pleading look of those sightless eyes
Will follow me all my allotted days.
Merging into the dreamy, soft twilight;
The music ceased, and we stole away
Into the deepening gloom of night.
And in the dream and mystery of life
We move along on our separate ways;
But the pleading look of those sightless eyes
Will follow me all my allotted days.
Ah, me! we, too, are oft blindly groping
In the weird darkness and danger alone;
We see not the dread pitfalls before us,
And oft are defeated and overthrown.
Sometimes, through the cold mist and the dimness,
We catch a glimpse of resplendent day,
And a strain of sweetest music supernal,
The refrain of a distant celestial lay.
In the weird darkness and danger alone;
We see not the dread pitfalls before us,
And oft are defeated and overthrown.
Sometimes, through the cold mist and the dimness,
We catch a glimpse of resplendent day,
And a strain of sweetest music supernal,
The refrain of a distant celestial lay.
THE VETERANS’ REUNION.
After the flight of thirty long years
They came at the welcome call;
Someone had suggested a reunion
Of the “old corps,” one and all.
They came from the village and crossroads,
The town, the shop, and the farm;
Just as they did thirty years ago,
When their hearts were young and warm.
They came at the welcome call;
Someone had suggested a reunion
Of the “old corps,” one and all.
They came from the village and crossroads,
The town, the shop, and the farm;
Just as they did thirty years ago,
When their hearts were young and warm.
They met at the “campfire” of reunion,
Clasped hands as comrades once more,
Recalled the deeds of the dauntless past,
And their campaigns recounted o’er.
“Fall in!” the old commander shouted,
“Fall in—after thirty years!”
With the same old ring, save a tremble,
And his eyes were misty with tears.
Clasped hands as comrades once more,
Recalled the deeds of the dauntless past,
And their campaigns recounted o’er.
“Fall in!” the old commander shouted,
“Fall in—after thirty years!”
With the same old ring, save a tremble,
And his eyes were misty with tears.
And they formed in column by the left,
“Proved” in sections and in fours,
Just as they did thirty years ago,
Guarding our frontier shores.
But not with the same quick precision
As when young and strong and gay;
But they did it, and with kindling eyes,
Though old and worn and gray.
“Proved” in sections and in fours,
Just as they did thirty years ago,
Guarding our frontier shores.
But not with the same quick precision
As when young and strong and gay;
But they did it, and with kindling eyes,
Though old and worn and gray.
“Call the roll!” the old major ordered,
“Call the living and the dead!”
And a solemn hush fell along the line,
And bowed was each veteran head.
The orderly stepped to the centre,
In front of the grand “old corps,”
And called the names that were dimmed by time,
As he had thirty years before.
“Call the living and the dead!”
And a solemn hush fell along the line,
And bowed was each veteran head.
The orderly stepped to the centre,
In front of the grand “old corps,”
And called the names that were dimmed by time,
As he had thirty years before.
And the “Tommy A’s” along the line
Answered, “Here, sir!” or “Dead! dead!”
The sections were thinned by the march of time,
Where all youthfulness had fled.
A route march through the town was taken
And the people en masse turned out,
And greeted the flag and the grand “old corps”
With welcome and loyal shout.
Answered, “Here, sir!” or “Dead! dead!”
The sections were thinned by the march of time,
Where all youthfulness had fled.
A route march through the town was taken
And the people en masse turned out,
And greeted the flag and the grand “old corps”
With welcome and loyal shout.
Then they deploy from column to line,
And turn to the right in fours;
And the band and the colors anon “take post,”
And the loyal heart upsoars.
They “squared” their shoulders, and looked to the front,
And the air was rent with cheers;
The band struck up, and they marched away
To the “British Grenadiers.”
And turn to the right in fours;
And the band and the colors anon “take post,”
And the loyal heart upsoars.
They “squared” their shoulders, and looked to the front,
And the air was rent with cheers;
The band struck up, and they marched away
To the “British Grenadiers.”
But not as they did thirty years ago,
For time mars the soldier’s form;
Not so erect or steady the pace,
But to-day their old hearts are warm.
And, if need be, for the Union Jack
E’en yet they would take their stand,
To fight for the flag all love so well,
And our fair Canadian land.
For time mars the soldier’s form;
Not so erect or steady the pace,
But to-day their old hearts are warm.
And, if need be, for the Union Jack
E’en yet they would take their stand,
To fight for the flag all love so well,
And our fair Canadian land.
Their ranks are formed for the last grand march
Down to a strange riverside—
The wonderful river all must reach,
That is deep and dark and wide.
They soon will have gained its margin—
God grant them safe transport o’er,
And a campfire and grand reunion,
A bivouac on the other shore.
Down to a strange riverside—
The wonderful river all must reach,
That is deep and dark and wide.
They soon will have gained its margin—
God grant them safe transport o’er,
And a campfire and grand reunion,
A bivouac on the other shore.
DISCREDITED.
Forgotten? aye, cruelly forgotten!
Passed by with looks of disdain
By the world, whose thin friendship is rotten,
That honors but riches and gain.
The poor are looked down upon coldly,
Though grand men in poverty have died;
And I assert, with just indignation,
They were slain by the world’s cold pride.
Passed by with looks of disdain
By the world, whose thin friendship is rotten,
That honors but riches and gain.
The poor are looked down upon coldly,
Though grand men in poverty have died;
And I assert, with just indignation,
They were slain by the world’s cold pride.
They struggled alone in the valley
To win up the far heights of fame;
And they pleaded but kind recognition,
But you thrust them down coldly again.
And you sneered at the lines they had written—
Lines that shall live till time is no more—
Fiery songs that light like a beacon
Along many a soul’s dark shore.
To win up the far heights of fame;
And they pleaded but kind recognition,
But you thrust them down coldly again.
And you sneered at the lines they had written—
Lines that shall live till time is no more—
Fiery songs that light like a beacon
Along many a soul’s dark shore.
And their thoughts were deep and uplifted;
They soared like eagles on high,
Or delved in the depths of the ocean
Of knowledge that borders the sky.
They stood on the loftiest mountains,
And gazed on the circling spheres
Of starry realms, the mystery of space,
In ecstasy, rapture, and fears.
They soared like eagles on high,
Or delved in the depths of the ocean
Of knowledge that borders the sky.
They stood on the loftiest mountains,
And gazed on the circling spheres
Of starry realms, the mystery of space,
In ecstasy, rapture, and fears.
They read from the grand book of nature,
And traced there the finger of God,
In starry ways of the fathomless deeps
That lead to man’s future abode.
They communed with the mystery of ocean,
Heard its billows sing grand and free,
As they rose in the storm or sank to repose
In murmuring tranquillity.
And traced there the finger of God,
In starry ways of the fathomless deeps
That lead to man’s future abode.
They communed with the mystery of ocean,
Heard its billows sing grand and free,
As they rose in the storm or sank to repose
In murmuring tranquillity.
And over the landscape that rolls away
Saw mountain, and river, and stream;
The undulations of emerald plains,
In the lights and shadows that dream.
And they heard the voice of murmuring winds,
And the bird songs free and wild,
Till their souls were filled with subtle sweets,
As nature upon them smiled.
Saw mountain, and river, and stream;
The undulations of emerald plains,
In the lights and shadows that dream.
And they heard the voice of murmuring winds,
And the bird songs free and wild,
Till their souls were filled with subtle sweets,
As nature upon them smiled.
Great souls were theirs, and all things daring
To uplift their weak fellowman,
Bringing light and freedom to the nations
By the searchlights of Justice to scan
The wrong and oppression by tyrants wrought,
The weak and the helpless enslaved;
Counting it gain if but freedom’s cause
Was uplifted and fallen man saved.
To uplift their weak fellowman,
Bringing light and freedom to the nations
By the searchlights of Justice to scan
The wrong and oppression by tyrants wrought,
The weak and the helpless enslaved;
Counting it gain if but freedom’s cause
Was uplifted and fallen man saved.
THE BATTLE OF STONY CREEK.
Fought June 6th, 1813. American Force, 3,000; British, 700.
Captured 4 Guns, 100 Prisoners, and both the American Generals,
Chandler and Winder.
Forward, into the midnight,
Silently, stealthily go,—
Forward, noble “seven hundred,”
Like a storm burst on the foe!
Not theirs to falter or murmur,
But silently to obey;
And they move like phantoms forward
Through the shadows dim and gray.
Silently, stealthily go,—
Forward, noble “seven hundred,”
Like a storm burst on the foe!
Not theirs to falter or murmur,
But silently to obey;
And they move like phantoms forward
Through the shadows dim and gray.
Only the signal’s given,
Never a spoken word;
But their dauntless hearts are burning,
By passionate valor stirred.
Onward, steadily onward,
Moves that heroic line;
Softly the night winds murmur,
And dimly the pale stars shine.
Never a spoken word;
But their dauntless hearts are burning,
By passionate valor stirred.
Onward, steadily onward,
Moves that heroic line;
Softly the night winds murmur,
And dimly the pale stars shine.
Pauses now the “seven hundred,”
Suppressed is even the breath—
A pause on the brink of midnight,
The fateful hour of death!
“Fire!” cried the hero Harvey,
“On them a dread volley pour;”
And a flash leaped bright and blinding,
And burst a deafening roar.
Suppressed is even the breath—
A pause on the brink of midnight,
The fateful hour of death!
“Fire!” cried the hero Harvey,
“On them a dread volley pour;”
And a flash leaped bright and blinding,
And burst a deafening roar.
Whole ranks were stricken by it
Before that withering rain;
Then through the tumult ringing
Burst Harvey’s cry again:
“Forward now the ‘seven hundred’;
Close up firm your lines of steel;
Sweep the field with the bayonet;
Let the foe your fury feel.”
Before that withering rain;
Then through the tumult ringing
Burst Harvey’s cry again:
“Forward now the ‘seven hundred’;
Close up firm your lines of steel;
Sweep the field with the bayonet;
Let the foe your fury feel.”
Though the guns rained upon them
A tempest of shot and shell,
And musketry fiercely volleyed,
And many a hero fell,
They charged with a ringing cheer
Through the batteries’ fierce flame,
And fell on the reeling ranks
Of the foe, who all in vain
A tempest of shot and shell,
And musketry fiercely volleyed,
And many a hero fell,
They charged with a ringing cheer
Through the batteries’ fierce flame,
And fell on the reeling ranks
Of the foe, who all in vain
Attempted to stay the sweep
Of that line of deadly steel.
With their torn and bloody ranks
They stagger, and they reel
Backward in broken fragments,
Back into headlong retreat.
All hail “noble seven hundred”!
Your victory was complete.
Of that line of deadly steel.
With their torn and bloody ranks
They stagger, and they reel
Backward in broken fragments,
Back into headlong retreat.
All hail “noble seven hundred”!
Your victory was complete.
Honor the men of “Stony Creek,”
The dauntless, brave “seven hundred”;
Long we’ll remember the noble slain.
A rescued country wondered
At the famous charge they made
Under the dome of night,
Heroically storming an army,
And putting the foe to flight.
The dauntless, brave “seven hundred”;
Long we’ll remember the noble slain.
A rescued country wondered
At the famous charge they made
Under the dome of night,
Heroically storming an army,
And putting the foe to flight.
VOICES.
O voices! voices! mysterious voices!
Why are ye haunting me evermore?
Thrilling my soul with your ceaseless murmurs,
Like phantom waves on a ghostly shore?
And whether by day, toilstained and weary,
Or when eve fades into lonesome night,
Still in dreams ye haunt me like a vision,
Hovering near at the dawn’s pale light.
Why are ye haunting me evermore?
Thrilling my soul with your ceaseless murmurs,
Like phantom waves on a ghostly shore?
And whether by day, toilstained and weary,
Or when eve fades into lonesome night,
Still in dreams ye haunt me like a vision,
Hovering near at the dawn’s pale light.
Some are soothing and laden with sweetness,
And others are weary all their days.
Ah, how the voices of children move me!
God bless their tender, innocent ways!
And the voices of old float around me,
Though silenced by time’s faded years;
Their feet have passed o’er the dark river
That winds through the dim vale of tears.
And others are weary all their days.
Ah, how the voices of children move me!
God bless their tender, innocent ways!
And the voices of old float around me,
Though silenced by time’s faded years;
Their feet have passed o’er the dark river
That winds through the dim vale of tears.
And the voice of the seasons, ever flowing
Outward and into the void of time,
Sadden my heart with their pain and losses,
And the few sweet days that were divine.
The voice of winds at the solemn midnight,
Through realms of space as they soar on high,
Chanting wild dirges o’er land and ocean,
’Neath a dreary moonless, starless sky.
Outward and into the void of time,
Sadden my heart with their pain and losses,
And the few sweet days that were divine.
The voice of winds at the solemn midnight,
Through realms of space as they soar on high,
Chanting wild dirges o’er land and ocean,
’Neath a dreary moonless, starless sky.
Or caressing the beautiful summer,
Sweetly asleep ’neath the silver moon;
Or lightly playing o’er mead and moorland,
And hills asleep in the golden noon.
And the voice of the sea, the strange blue sea,
As ’t restlessly ripples on the shore;
Or when tempests sweep o’er its heaving bosom
And mighty billows in anger roar.
Sweetly asleep ’neath the silver moon;
Or lightly playing o’er mead and moorland,
And hills asleep in the golden noon.
And the voice of the sea, the strange blue sea,
As ’t restlessly ripples on the shore;
Or when tempests sweep o’er its heaving bosom
And mighty billows in anger roar.
And the voice of the sphere’s silent glory,
Forever sweeping the vast unknown;
Revolving around some wonderful centre—
O celestial centre!—Alcyone!
Listen, my soul (for ’tis not finite),
To a song that comes from the infinite shore,
Stealing down through the far starry spaces,
Repeating its rapture o’er and o’er.
Forever sweeping the vast unknown;
Revolving around some wonderful centre—
O celestial centre!—Alcyone!
Listen, my soul (for ’tis not finite),
To a song that comes from the infinite shore,
Stealing down through the far starry spaces,
Repeating its rapture o’er and o’er.
Sometimes ’tis as of a thousand harpers,
And a thousand voices blending sweet—
Can it be, my soul, that ’tis an echo
Of the angels’ song at the Saviour’s feet?
Sing on! sing on, ye mysterious voices!
Though I can’t tell all your song would say,
We may know the way of the starry spaces
When night-time fades into endless day.
And a thousand voices blending sweet—
Can it be, my soul, that ’tis an echo
Of the angels’ song at the Saviour’s feet?
Sing on! sing on, ye mysterious voices!
Though I can’t tell all your song would say,
We may know the way of the starry spaces
When night-time fades into endless day.
DIVIDED.
Hope died to-day, and I’m thinking
Of a time that never can be;
And my thoughts grow strangely tender
In asking and praying for thee.
Of a time that never can be;
And my thoughts grow strangely tender
In asking and praying for thee.
Thou’st turned away from my pleading
The light of thy starry eyes,
That rival the purest beaming
Of the bluest of summer skies.
The light of thy starry eyes,
That rival the purest beaming
Of the bluest of summer skies.
Sweet eyes, that sometimes kindled
With love-light when I was nigh—
A wistful and tender yearning
That mem’ry recalls with a sigh.
With love-light when I was nigh—
A wistful and tender yearning
That mem’ry recalls with a sigh.
Thy voice, so low and so thrilling,
And soft as the summer wind
That plays o’er the sunlit fountains,
Entrancing both heart and mind.
And soft as the summer wind
That plays o’er the sunlit fountains,
Entrancing both heart and mind.
Thy face, as pure as an angel’s,
Half veiled by thy golden hair,
Star-gemmed with God-like meekness,
So kindly, so wondrous fair!
Half veiled by thy golden hair,
Star-gemmed with God-like meekness,
So kindly, so wondrous fair!
In vain, oh, heart, are thy dreamings!
The flowers lie dead on the lea;
The sun ’s gone down in the shadows
That darken the dreary sea.
The flowers lie dead on the lea;
The sun ’s gone down in the shadows
That darken the dreary sea.
The winds moan low o’er the hilltops,
The waves sob along the dim shore;
And night gathers fast in the valley—
Will the day return nevermore?
The waves sob along the dim shore;
And night gathers fast in the valley—
Will the day return nevermore?