9
THE FIELD OF WATERLOO.
STOP;—for thy tread is on an Empire's dust!
An earthquake's spoil is sepulcred below!
Is the spot marked with no colossal bust?
Nor column trophied for triumphal show?
None; but the moral's truth tells simpler so.
As the ground was before thus let it be.—
How that red rain—hath made the harvest grow!
And is this all the world has gained by thee,
Thou first and last of fields; king-making Victory!
There was a sound of revelry by night,
And Belgium's capital had gather'd then
Her Beauty and her chivalry; and bright
The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men;
A thousand hearts beat happily; and when
Music arose, with its voluptuous swell,
Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again,
And all went merry as a marriage-bell;—
But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!
Did you not hear it?—No; 'twas but the wind,
Or the car rattling o'er the stoney street;
On with the dance! let joy be unconfined;
No sleep till morn, when youth and pleasure meet
To chase the glowing hours with flying feet—
But hark!—that heavy sound breaks in once more,
As if the clouds its echo would repeat;
And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before!
Arm! arm! it is!—it is! the cannon's opening roar!
Within a widow'd niche of that high hall
Sat Brunswick's fated chieftain; he did hear
That sound the first amidst the festival,
