A Complete Collection of the English Poems which have obtained the Chancellor's Gold Medal in the University of Cambridge/Waterloo
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From stormy skies the Sun withdrew his light;
Terrific in her grandeur reigned the Night:
'Twas deepest gloom-or light'ning's angry glare;
Voices of mighty thunder rent the air:
In gusts and moanings hollow raved the blast,
And clouds poured out their fury, as they passed.
But fiercer storms to-morrow's Sun shall fright;
More deadly thunders usher in the night.
The winds may howl unnoticed; for their sound
'Mid the deep groans of thousands shall be drowned;
The plain be deluged with a ghastlier flood:
That tempest's wrath shall fall in showers of blood.
See! by the flash of momentary day,
The hills are thronged with battle's dread array.
There, Gallia's legions, reeking with the gore
Of slaughtered Prussia; thirsting deep for more;
Secure of Conquest: ravening for their prey;
On Brussels thought, and cursed the night's delay.
Here Brunswick's sable warriors, grim, and still,
Mourned their lost chief; and eyed the adverse hill
With fell intent. Indignant at retreat
Here Britons burned once more that foe to greet.
Yet were there some could slumber, and forget,
Awhile, the deadly work for which they met.
But anxious thoughts broke many a soldier's rest,
Thoughts not unworthy of a Hero's breast.
The rugged Veteran, struggling with a sigh,
In fancy listen'd to his orphans' cry;
Saw them a prey to poverty and woe,
And felt that pang which only parents know.
With eager feelings, not unmixed with awe,
A battle's eve now first the Stripling saw:
Weary, and wet, and famished as he lay,
Imagination wandering far away,
Shews him the scene of dear, domestic joy;
Laughs with him o'er the frolics of the boy.
The words of parting tingle in his ears;
How swells his heart, as each loved form appears!
And now it yearns towards her, and her alone,
Whom youth's fond dreams had given him for his own.
From these—from her—'twas agony to part!
To-morrow's chance smote chill upon his heart.
'Twas but a moment. Hope asserts her right,
Grants him his wildest visions of delight.
To gay, victorious thoughts, he lightly yields,
And sleeps like Condé[1] ere his first of fields.
Slow broke the Sun thro' that sad morning's gloom,
And awful scene his watery beams illume.
No glittering pageant met the dazzled eyes;
For painful marches, and tempestuous skies
Had quenched the light of steel—the pride of gold:
Each warrior's plight a tale of hardship told.
And youthful eyes beamed gaiety no more,
But all a look of settled fierceness wore.
It is a breathless pause—while armies wait
The madd'ning signal for the work of fate.
Its thunder spoke,—quick answering to the first,
Peal upon peal in dread succession burst.
Darted Imperial Eagles from their stand;
Rushed in their train a long-victorious band;
Shot down the slope, and dashed upon the wood,
Where, calm and ready, Britain's guardians stood.
Hark to that yell! as hand to hand they close:
There the last shriek of multitudes arose!
—Hark to the musket-fire! from man to man,
Rapid, and gathering fury as it ran,
It spreads, fierce crackling, thro' the ranks of death,
While nations sink before its blasting breath.
The war-smoke mounts; cloud rolling after cloud:
They spread; they mingle; till one sulph'rous shroud
Enwraps the field. What shouts, what demon-screams
Rung from that misty vale! what fiery gleams
Broke fast and far—oh! words are weak to tell.
It was a scene had less of earth than hell.
But look! what means yon fitful, redd'ning glare?
What flames are struggling with the murky air?
Lo! thro' the gloom they burst! and full and bright
Streams o'er the war, their fearful, wavering light.
Amidst yon wood 'tis raging. Yes! thy towers,
Ill-fated Hougomont, that blaze devours.
Forth blindly rushing mingle friend and foe.
See the walls tottering!—there! down, down they go
Headlong! Within that ruin to have been!
Oh! shuddering fancy quails beneath the scene.
For there had many a victim crept to die;
There, crushed and motionless, in heaps they lie.
And happy they: for many a wretch was there,
Powerful to suffer; lingering in despair.
Is it the bursting earthquake's voice of fear?
That hollow rush? No! borne in full career
On roll the chosen squadrons of the foe,
Whose mail-clad bosoms mock the sabre's blow.
Wild waves of sable plumage o'er them dancing;
Above that sea, quick, broken flashes glancing
From brandished steel; shrill raising, as they came,
The spell of that all-conquering chieftain's name.
Dismal the rattle of their harness grew;
Their grisly features opened on the view.
Forth spurring, cheerful as their trumpets rang,
The stately chivalry of England sprang
In native valor—arms of proof—arrayed:
Nought but his own right hand, and his good blade,
To guard each hero's breast. Like thunder-clouds
Rolling together, clash the foaming crowds.
Their swords are falling with gigantic sway,
And gashes yawn, and limbs are lopped away:
And lightened chargers toss the loosening rein,
Break frantic forth, and scour along the plain.
Their lords, the glorious shapes of war they bore,
The terrible, the graceful—are no more;
Crushed out of man's similitude, expire,
With nought to mark them from the gory mire,
(Tomb of their yet warm relics) save the last
Convulsive flutter, as the Spirit past.
Those iron warriors reel! their eagle's won,
Tho' squadrons bled to rescue it! 'tis done,—
That stern, unequal combat! 'tis a chase!
Hot Wrath let loose on Terror and Disgrace!
Such is the desert antelope's career;
Plunging, and tossing, mad with pain and fear;
Whom her keen foe, the murd'rous vulture, rides
With talons rooted in her streaming sides.
Where, yonder, war's tumultuous billows roll;
Where each wild passion fires the frenzied soul;
The blood, the havoc, of that ruthless hour
On those steeled hearts have lost their chilling power.
The charging veteran marks, with careless eye,
His comrade sink; and, as he rushes by,
Sees not the varied horrors of his lot;
Springs on his foe, and strikes, and shudders not.
But turn, and pity that brave, suffering band,
Beneath the battery's fury doomed to stand
With useless arms: with leisure to survey
The wreck around them. Hearts of proof were they
That shrunk not. Burning like a meteor star,
With whirlwind's fury rushing from afar,
The bolt of death amidst their close array
With deafening crash falls; bursts; and marks its way
With torn and scattered victims. There are they
Who, but one moment since, with haughty brow,
Stood firm in conscious manliness. And now—
Mark those pale, altered features; those wild groans;
Those quiv'ring lips; those blood-stained, shattered bones!
With burning hearts, and half averted eyes,
Their fellows view that hideous sacrifice.
Oh! they did hail the summons with delight,
That called them forth to mingle in the fight.
Forward they press: too busy now to heed
The piteous cry; the wail of those who plead
With frantic earnestness to friend and chief
For help to bear them off; for that relief,
Which might not be. How sunk the sufferer's heart,
Who saw his hopes expire—his friends depart,
And leave him to his woes—a helpless prey.
Death! death alone may be his friend to-day.
'Tis he shall calm each agonizing fear
Of trampling hoofs, or lancer's[2] coward spear;
Shall cool that thirst, and bid those torments cease,
And o'er him shed the sweets of sleep and peace.
When storms are loud, go, view some rugged shore,
Tow'rds whose stern barrier hoarsely racing pour
The long dark billows; swelling till they curl;
Then full against the rocks their fury hurl,
And spring aloft in clouds. Dost see that wave
Leap at the cliffs, and into yonder cave
Ride, swift and high? From the rude sides recoiling,
It flies in showers of spray; then, fiercely boiling,
Rallies, and drives its might amongst the crags,
Wheeling in eddies—vain! its fury flags;
Tost from their points, it yields; and to the deep,
Baffled, and broken, as its currents sweep,
Leaves to its conqu'rors, on the cavern floor,
The wreaths of foam; the crest it proudly wore.
Firm as the rocks that strew that sea-beat coast,
In clust'ring masses stood the British host.
Fierce as those waves, the warrior horse of Gaul
Streamed, blindly rushing to as sure a fall.
Ever, as near to each dark square they drew,
In act to plunge, and crush th' unshrinking few,
Burst, as from Death's own jaws, a fiery shower,
Whose 'whelming blast, whose paralysing power,
Nought earthly might withstand. To rise no more,
Whole ranks are down. The treach'rous cuirass tore
The breast beneath; in splinters flew the lance.
Yet nobly true to Glory and to France,
Yet, 'mid the ruin, many a steadfast heart,
E'en to the last, played well a chieftain's part.
They lived to see their efforts fail to cheer
Those veterans, pale with all unwonted fear.
In vain devotion, in despairing pride,
They rushed upon the bristling steel and died.
What tho' the remnant fled? Fresh myriads rear
The forked banner, couch the threatening spear;
Drive, and are driven, to that fatal goal;
Countless, as clouds before the gale that roll;
Fast, as the troubled world of waters pours
Wave upon wave, from undiminished stores.
The tide has turned: the roar is dying fast:
Each lessening wave breaks shorter than the last;
And France, the life-blood ebbing from her veins,
Feebly, yet furious still, for victory strains.
One effort more! a mighty one! She came,
Nerved by despair, and goaded on by shame.
But Britain marked her fainting rival's plight,
And gave her vengeance way; and from her height
Plunged, like the lava cataract, whose roar
Shakes frozen Hecla's precipices hoar.
The bright blue gems of Arctic ice that crowned
Her lofty head, are melting all around;
A thousand winters' hardened depth of snow
Is vanishing before that torrent's glow;
Mighty the rocks that, frowning, bar its path:
Rending, uprooting, scattering them in wrath;
The flaming deluge, with resistless sway,
Holds on its widely desolating way.
France! thou art fallen! and he, so oft the boast,
The idol, of thine oft deserted host,
Leaves it once more—to curse his name and die.
But as he turned, what phantoms met his eye?
Rising like those wild shapes that from the dead
Return to haunt the tortured murderer's bed.
No, mighty murderer! 'tis not a dream!
'Tis Prussia's self! her own exulting scream!
Fliest thou? she comes, with lavish hands to pay
The debt that swelled thro' many a bitter day.
There's rust upon her steel. Aye! there was shed
The deadliest venom hatred ever bred.
And she shall wash that deeply cankering stain,
France, in thy blood and tears: but wash in vain.
Not all the flames she kindles in thy land
Shall ever brighten that polluted brand.
'Tis retribution, bloody as thy deeds:
But who shall pity when a tiger bleeds?
Thou cry for mercy! was it not denied
To every suppliant in thine hour of pride?
Grim laughs th' avenger hanging on thy way,
Weary with slaughter, lab'ring still to slay:
And unfleshed Belgians hurry down to glean
The field where Britain's generous hand had been.
To distant skies that hurricane has rolled—
But oh! the wreck is left! Could tongue unfold
The matchless horrors of those cumbered plains,
'Twould chill the current in a warrior's veins.
And yet, that field of anguish, brief as keen,
Was but the centre of the one wide scene
Of human misery. Oh! who shall say
How many wounded spirits, far away,
Are left to groan thro' long, chill, bitter years,
Beneath the woe that nothing earthly cheers.
Shall Glory be the widowed bride's relief?
She feels it but a mockery of grief.
Shall Glory dry the childless mother's tears?
Harsh grate the notes of Fame upon her ears!
Thine are no Spartan matrons, favoured isle!
Gentle as fair! The sunshine of their smile,
Where the proud victor loves to bask, is set,
With Sorrow's dew the loveliest cheeks are wet.
Throughout the land is gone a mourning voice;
And broken are the hearts that should rejoice.
Dimly, as yet, the Crown of Victory shines;
Where cypress with the blood-stained laurel twines.
But there shall Time the brightest verdure breathe,
And pluck the gloomy foilage from her wreath.
Then proudly shall posterity retrace,
First in the deathless honours of their race,
That giant fight, which crushed Napoleon's power,
And saved the world. Far distant is the hour
Unheard of, yet, the deed our sons must do,
That shall eclipse thy glory, Waterloo!!
Terrific in her grandeur reigned the Night:
'Twas deepest gloom-or light'ning's angry glare;
Voices of mighty thunder rent the air:
In gusts and moanings hollow raved the blast,
And clouds poured out their fury, as they passed.
But fiercer storms to-morrow's Sun shall fright;
More deadly thunders usher in the night.
The winds may howl unnoticed; for their sound
'Mid the deep groans of thousands shall be drowned;
The plain be deluged with a ghastlier flood:
That tempest's wrath shall fall in showers of blood.
See! by the flash of momentary day,
The hills are thronged with battle's dread array.
There, Gallia's legions, reeking with the gore
Of slaughtered Prussia; thirsting deep for more;
Secure of Conquest: ravening for their prey;
On Brussels thought, and cursed the night's delay.
Here Brunswick's sable warriors, grim, and still,
Mourned their lost chief; and eyed the adverse hill
With fell intent. Indignant at retreat
Here Britons burned once more that foe to greet.
Yet were there some could slumber, and forget,
Awhile, the deadly work for which they met.
But anxious thoughts broke many a soldier's rest,
Thoughts not unworthy of a Hero's breast.
The rugged Veteran, struggling with a sigh,
In fancy listen'd to his orphans' cry;
Saw them a prey to poverty and woe,
And felt that pang which only parents know.
With eager feelings, not unmixed with awe,
A battle's eve now first the Stripling saw:
Weary, and wet, and famished as he lay,
Imagination wandering far away,
Shews him the scene of dear, domestic joy;
Laughs with him o'er the frolics of the boy.
The words of parting tingle in his ears;
How swells his heart, as each loved form appears!
And now it yearns towards her, and her alone,
Whom youth's fond dreams had given him for his own.
From these—from her—'twas agony to part!
To-morrow's chance smote chill upon his heart.
'Twas but a moment. Hope asserts her right,
Grants him his wildest visions of delight.
To gay, victorious thoughts, he lightly yields,
And sleeps like Condé[1] ere his first of fields.
Slow broke the Sun thro' that sad morning's gloom,
And awful scene his watery beams illume.
No glittering pageant met the dazzled eyes;
For painful marches, and tempestuous skies
Had quenched the light of steel—the pride of gold:
Each warrior's plight a tale of hardship told.
And youthful eyes beamed gaiety no more,
But all a look of settled fierceness wore.
It is a breathless pause—while armies wait
The madd'ning signal for the work of fate.
Its thunder spoke,—quick answering to the first,
Peal upon peal in dread succession burst.
Darted Imperial Eagles from their stand;
Rushed in their train a long-victorious band;
Shot down the slope, and dashed upon the wood,
Where, calm and ready, Britain's guardians stood.
Hark to that yell! as hand to hand they close:
There the last shriek of multitudes arose!
—Hark to the musket-fire! from man to man,
Rapid, and gathering fury as it ran,
It spreads, fierce crackling, thro' the ranks of death,
While nations sink before its blasting breath.
The war-smoke mounts; cloud rolling after cloud:
They spread; they mingle; till one sulph'rous shroud
Enwraps the field. What shouts, what demon-screams
Rung from that misty vale! what fiery gleams
Broke fast and far—oh! words are weak to tell.
It was a scene had less of earth than hell.
But look! what means yon fitful, redd'ning glare?
What flames are struggling with the murky air?
Lo! thro' the gloom they burst! and full and bright
Streams o'er the war, their fearful, wavering light.
Amidst yon wood 'tis raging. Yes! thy towers,
Ill-fated Hougomont, that blaze devours.
Forth blindly rushing mingle friend and foe.
See the walls tottering!—there! down, down they go
Headlong! Within that ruin to have been!
Oh! shuddering fancy quails beneath the scene.
For there had many a victim crept to die;
There, crushed and motionless, in heaps they lie.
And happy they: for many a wretch was there,
Powerful to suffer; lingering in despair.
Is it the bursting earthquake's voice of fear?
That hollow rush? No! borne in full career
On roll the chosen squadrons of the foe,
Whose mail-clad bosoms mock the sabre's blow.
Wild waves of sable plumage o'er them dancing;
Above that sea, quick, broken flashes glancing
From brandished steel; shrill raising, as they came,
The spell of that all-conquering chieftain's name.
Dismal the rattle of their harness grew;
Their grisly features opened on the view.
Forth spurring, cheerful as their trumpets rang,
The stately chivalry of England sprang
In native valor—arms of proof—arrayed:
Nought but his own right hand, and his good blade,
To guard each hero's breast. Like thunder-clouds
Rolling together, clash the foaming crowds.
Their swords are falling with gigantic sway,
And gashes yawn, and limbs are lopped away:
And lightened chargers toss the loosening rein,
Break frantic forth, and scour along the plain.
Their lords, the glorious shapes of war they bore,
The terrible, the graceful—are no more;
Crushed out of man's similitude, expire,
With nought to mark them from the gory mire,
(Tomb of their yet warm relics) save the last
Convulsive flutter, as the Spirit past.
Those iron warriors reel! their eagle's won,
Tho' squadrons bled to rescue it! 'tis done,—
That stern, unequal combat! 'tis a chase!
Hot Wrath let loose on Terror and Disgrace!
Such is the desert antelope's career;
Plunging, and tossing, mad with pain and fear;
Whom her keen foe, the murd'rous vulture, rides
With talons rooted in her streaming sides.
Where, yonder, war's tumultuous billows roll;
Where each wild passion fires the frenzied soul;
The blood, the havoc, of that ruthless hour
On those steeled hearts have lost their chilling power.
The charging veteran marks, with careless eye,
His comrade sink; and, as he rushes by,
Sees not the varied horrors of his lot;
Springs on his foe, and strikes, and shudders not.
But turn, and pity that brave, suffering band,
Beneath the battery's fury doomed to stand
With useless arms: with leisure to survey
The wreck around them. Hearts of proof were they
That shrunk not. Burning like a meteor star,
With whirlwind's fury rushing from afar,
The bolt of death amidst their close array
With deafening crash falls; bursts; and marks its way
With torn and scattered victims. There are they
Who, but one moment since, with haughty brow,
Stood firm in conscious manliness. And now—
Mark those pale, altered features; those wild groans;
Those quiv'ring lips; those blood-stained, shattered bones!
With burning hearts, and half averted eyes,
Their fellows view that hideous sacrifice.
Oh! they did hail the summons with delight,
That called them forth to mingle in the fight.
Forward they press: too busy now to heed
The piteous cry; the wail of those who plead
With frantic earnestness to friend and chief
For help to bear them off; for that relief,
Which might not be. How sunk the sufferer's heart,
Who saw his hopes expire—his friends depart,
And leave him to his woes—a helpless prey.
Death! death alone may be his friend to-day.
'Tis he shall calm each agonizing fear
Of trampling hoofs, or lancer's[2] coward spear;
Shall cool that thirst, and bid those torments cease,
And o'er him shed the sweets of sleep and peace.
When storms are loud, go, view some rugged shore,
Tow'rds whose stern barrier hoarsely racing pour
The long dark billows; swelling till they curl;
Then full against the rocks their fury hurl,
And spring aloft in clouds. Dost see that wave
Leap at the cliffs, and into yonder cave
Ride, swift and high? From the rude sides recoiling,
It flies in showers of spray; then, fiercely boiling,
Rallies, and drives its might amongst the crags,
Wheeling in eddies—vain! its fury flags;
Tost from their points, it yields; and to the deep,
Baffled, and broken, as its currents sweep,
Leaves to its conqu'rors, on the cavern floor,
The wreaths of foam; the crest it proudly wore.
Firm as the rocks that strew that sea-beat coast,
In clust'ring masses stood the British host.
Fierce as those waves, the warrior horse of Gaul
Streamed, blindly rushing to as sure a fall.
Ever, as near to each dark square they drew,
In act to plunge, and crush th' unshrinking few,
Burst, as from Death's own jaws, a fiery shower,
Whose 'whelming blast, whose paralysing power,
Nought earthly might withstand. To rise no more,
Whole ranks are down. The treach'rous cuirass tore
The breast beneath; in splinters flew the lance.
Yet nobly true to Glory and to France,
Yet, 'mid the ruin, many a steadfast heart,
E'en to the last, played well a chieftain's part.
They lived to see their efforts fail to cheer
Those veterans, pale with all unwonted fear.
In vain devotion, in despairing pride,
They rushed upon the bristling steel and died.
What tho' the remnant fled? Fresh myriads rear
The forked banner, couch the threatening spear;
Drive, and are driven, to that fatal goal;
Countless, as clouds before the gale that roll;
Fast, as the troubled world of waters pours
Wave upon wave, from undiminished stores.
The tide has turned: the roar is dying fast:
Each lessening wave breaks shorter than the last;
And France, the life-blood ebbing from her veins,
Feebly, yet furious still, for victory strains.
One effort more! a mighty one! She came,
Nerved by despair, and goaded on by shame.
But Britain marked her fainting rival's plight,
And gave her vengeance way; and from her height
Plunged, like the lava cataract, whose roar
Shakes frozen Hecla's precipices hoar.
The bright blue gems of Arctic ice that crowned
Her lofty head, are melting all around;
A thousand winters' hardened depth of snow
Is vanishing before that torrent's glow;
Mighty the rocks that, frowning, bar its path:
Rending, uprooting, scattering them in wrath;
The flaming deluge, with resistless sway,
Holds on its widely desolating way.
France! thou art fallen! and he, so oft the boast,
The idol, of thine oft deserted host,
Leaves it once more—to curse his name and die.
But as he turned, what phantoms met his eye?
Rising like those wild shapes that from the dead
Return to haunt the tortured murderer's bed.
No, mighty murderer! 'tis not a dream!
'Tis Prussia's self! her own exulting scream!
Fliest thou? she comes, with lavish hands to pay
The debt that swelled thro' many a bitter day.
There's rust upon her steel. Aye! there was shed
The deadliest venom hatred ever bred.
And she shall wash that deeply cankering stain,
France, in thy blood and tears: but wash in vain.
Not all the flames she kindles in thy land
Shall ever brighten that polluted brand.
'Tis retribution, bloody as thy deeds:
But who shall pity when a tiger bleeds?
Thou cry for mercy! was it not denied
To every suppliant in thine hour of pride?
Grim laughs th' avenger hanging on thy way,
Weary with slaughter, lab'ring still to slay:
And unfleshed Belgians hurry down to glean
The field where Britain's generous hand had been.
To distant skies that hurricane has rolled—
But oh! the wreck is left! Could tongue unfold
The matchless horrors of those cumbered plains,
'Twould chill the current in a warrior's veins.
And yet, that field of anguish, brief as keen,
Was but the centre of the one wide scene
Of human misery. Oh! who shall say
How many wounded spirits, far away,
Are left to groan thro' long, chill, bitter years,
Beneath the woe that nothing earthly cheers.
Shall Glory be the widowed bride's relief?
She feels it but a mockery of grief.
Shall Glory dry the childless mother's tears?
Harsh grate the notes of Fame upon her ears!
Thine are no Spartan matrons, favoured isle!
Gentle as fair! The sunshine of their smile,
Where the proud victor loves to bask, is set,
With Sorrow's dew the loveliest cheeks are wet.
Throughout the land is gone a mourning voice;
And broken are the hearts that should rejoice.
Dimly, as yet, the Crown of Victory shines;
Where cypress with the blood-stained laurel twines.
But there shall Time the brightest verdure breathe,
And pluck the gloomy foilage from her wreath.
Then proudly shall posterity retrace,
First in the deathless honours of their race,
That giant fight, which crushed Napoleon's power,
And saved the world. Far distant is the hour
Unheard of, yet, the deed our sons must do,
That shall eclipse thy glory, Waterloo!!
- ↑ The battle of Rocroi, on the eve of which, according to Voltaire (Siécle de Louis XIV.), the Prince, having made all his dispositions, slept so soundly, that they were obliged to awaken him for the engagement.
- ↑ This epithet can, of course, only refer to the use made of the weapon by the French against the wounded and helpless.