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Of awful carnage, and resultant peace,Of happy revolutionary aims,And of bereavement in unnumbered homes.Glibly, but with grim earnestness he talked,And he had earnest listeners; yet his mien,His very earnestness engendered smiles,And still on every face was clearly writThat one word—"Holiday." If aught recalledThe dark, dark, solemn awfulness of war,Sad sights and sounds, the dismal moans and criesOf wounded, dying; the now-smiling sceneReeking with gore and full of ghastliness,Swift passed the troubled vision; scarce a sighOr quickened heart-beat seemed to be called forthBy casual reference to the sufferingSo keen, so real on that fateful day.Honour, and nought but honour, seemed it nowTo have it said, "He died at Waterloo."
Now points the old man round to various sites,And tells how, after recent desperate fight,And hard-won triumph, and brief, troubled rest,The English general, brave Wellington,"Mid burning heat, and frequent skirmishing,And raging tempest, led his trustful troopsTo a night's wet and cheerless bivouac,With scanty rations, on this chosen field.There, to the north, and stretching to the eastHe fixed his main post, upon Mont St. Jean,Dotting its front with squares of infantry,And hiding men behind its sheltering crest.There, to the south-west, in the chateau groundsOf Hougoumont were other thousands massed,And there, when morning's drizzle ceased, the FrenchBegan the sharp encounter, and throughoutMaintained fierce fight,—the gallant British forceAgainst superior numbers standing firm,Or swift recovering from a slight reverse.Straight to the south, on the Belle Alliance heights,'Mid trumpet clangour and the beat of drums,The French in thirteen columns were disposed,
