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And, spreading between them and Mont St. Jean,Was open valley upon either sideOf the high road from Brussels to Charleroi;And, centrally conspicuous, there stoodBy the roadside a farm—La Haie Sainte—That in the fray endured such frequent chargeAnd varying fortune. To the right of French,To eastward, was the little wood, the roadWhence towards the close of day the Prussians cameWhen English energies were well-nigh spent,—There, Papelotte and Planchenois, their captured points.All day had warfare lasted; yet th'allies,Though valiantly, successfully they fought,Had but repelled from their well-chosen groundThe bold, aggressive French; but, when at lengthIn the south-eastern distance were descriedSigns of the long-expected Prussian aid,And when the foe, of conquest well assured,But irritated by such firm defence,Gathered his forces for a last attack,Then, at their reverenced commander's word,As, waving hat in air, he gave the sign,Th' impetuous but long-curbed British ranks,Full of high hope, and raising a glad cheer,Swept forward down the slopes of Mont St. Jean,And charged their way to speedy victory.Then fled the hero of so many fights,And from the field the battered residueOf his grand army was completely driven;Then fresher Prussian troops took up the chaseAnd pressed to southward the retreating host,Leaving the brave but weary conquerorsTo midnight rest upon the dead-strewn earth.
So ended the narration.
Merrily thenThe three descended to the lower ground,Entered the little house hard by, now famedFor the night-slumber of the Iron Duke,
