Poems (Townsend)/Waterloo
WATERLOO.[1]
Thoughts born of light, and words that breathe of Heaven!
O might I wake those strains from Echo's cave,
Which died in melody o'er Milton's grave!
Then the rapt hope were mine to sing and soar,
Where never poet dar'd his flight before,
And ev'n to Glory's loftiest realm pursue
Thy matchless theme, immortal Waterloo.
But vainly now, still lab'ring unexprest,
Pants the deep feeling in my baffled breast.
A world in arms—a Tyrant hurl'd from high—
An Empire's might—a People's constancy;
All that inspirits, soothes, exalts, endears,
The victor's triumph, and the mourner's tears,
All throng in vast succession, each in turn
Melts the full heart, or bids its ardour burn.
Lost in effulgence, where shall Fancy stray?
How from the brightness part each blended ray?
How, when the full-orb'd Moon on Ocean streams,
Paint ev'ry wave, where sep'rate lustre gleams;
Yet all combin'd upon the dazzled sight
Effuse one flood of undivided light?
Long thro' her realms had Earth with discord burn'd;
To Belgium now her eager glance is turn'd—
Stage of high deeds, where waits each anxious eye
The last wild act of War's dread tragedy.
To-morrow sees Gaul's proud Usurper hurl'd
Low to the dust, or Monarch of the world.
Spirits, to whom the care of man is given,
Ye bend expectant from your native Heaven.
'Tis not o'er one pale nation Doubt prevails—
A World, a World is trembling in the scales!
From broken clouds looks out the threat'ning Sun;
Gleams on the village fane of Waterloo;
Then, deeply red, as if suffus'd with blood,
Sinks into gloom behind dark Soignies' wood.
A deadly stillness, which is not repose,
O'er earth and air its dull stagnation throws.
Is it that Nature thus suspends her breath,
List'ning afar the rushing wings of Death?
On the low brow of yonder gentle hill,
Where the corn rustles, tho' the wind is still,
No shepherds watch, no peasants braid the dance,
'Tis England rank'd against the might of France.
Her mustering myriads crown the opposing height,
While dark between them drops the veil of Night.
Short separation! They at morn shall meet.
With such good morrow as a foe may greet.
Oh! 'till that hour what expectation reigns,
Drinks the quick breath, and thrills the fever'd veins;
Dread the fierce onset, dread the stern defence,
But what can match the sickness of suspense?
To act, to suffer, may be nobly great,
But Nature's mightiest effort is, to wait.
Did it not seem relief, when, rous'd at length,
Burst the full tempest in its gather'd strength?
Did not the body's added hardships win
The mind from turning on itself within?
354 '. WAt?ERLOO.
As if to light your troops ts.vlctory. Reflected l?tre from the bayonet streams, And cres .ted. helms give back th? level beams. Whirl the re?.coinm_ns of collected.sand, Ting'd _by.thesetting sun's dilated are, Proud to th.e.skles. the piltat'd flames aspire, And sweep ,tremendous o?r the ravag*d plain, While the pale pilgsim. strives to fly in vain: So nobly dread, so formidably bright Mov'd En?lami's.host..in all.the p6mp of light.. Strong as from.peace, amt flesh as frommrepose, Now--now she rushes on.her yielding foes.. � The clearing.smoke their hurrying rout reveals; Wil?y they fly, or bend the suppliant knee, England is victor, and. the world i? free ! Distracted U .!?r0ar lords it ?*er the plain: Where bleed ? wonn.ded, or whe TM sink the?slai?, Onward they. dr?ve, pursuarS, and pursued, Nor check.their footsteps'deep in blood embrued. Rout.and. Confusion, Fear, and. Death are.them, And the pale form-of !?tiless Despair. Oh yet exult not, as ye swift recede, That the tifd Briton checks his panting steed v. ......... ?Google
� WATERLOO.' 355 ? Fresh, and unbreath'd, impetuohs ?s the Wa?e, Oreedy as wolves, r?!entl?/s"the gra?e, The Prussian comes, his sword'in blood unste?p'd,' To gather in the harvest. England reap'd. Hope not for mercy ! �Did ye mercy shew, When pale Silesia'saw her conquering foe ? Remember Ligny, where the flag of Death Wav'd its black'menace o'e? the host beneath?*' The Briton, bulwark'd by his rocky strand, Ne'er' Saw thee blight the gardens of his No injur'd wife, n? m?rd?r'd offspring call His soul to vengeance on:the cruel Gaul: But there are wrongs; too deep'to be redrest, That fret, and r?nkle in the Prussian's breast. The cup of vengeance holds its mantiing draught Close to h/s lips,---and deep shall it be quaff'd But darkness yet that madd'ning flight may shroud.- Oh, for a night ?f t?mpest? gloom, and c!sud i Uprose the M&?n, uhclouded, broad, and bright, In all the beauty of a' Summer's night. Heedless of men, alike she seems to move O'erfiglds Of carnage, or the peaceful grove, The dread pursuit of foes; or harmless scenes of Io?e." ......... ?Google
� 3? 3Y'A. TER LO0; Now he? pale lamp sheholds?'er Sllngbter's hand? Guides the su,re blow, ami p?Ms the .v?efut b .rmJd. Onward they. ms;b, '.till t!?r?ected beem Quivers on Sam. bre's ' ?.n. tly-g.lidimg fitteam.. Ah, gentle nOW no qJore t The. broke?.wftve Flashes above the sol.dle.r'8 wa.t'ry greve, The stifled groan, the fs?q.u .?. t plunk.declare That foemen slay, .aml.. warriors perish there. But turn youreyes , .where spreads the tranquil light'. O'er the wide.plain, .where .rag'd the desperate fight, Death's banquet-r .?, where wildly mingled lie '131e wreclr.s of his ?eme. ndous.?evelry.' The pale r.ay gleams on mauy a paler cheek,. Distain'd alone by slaughter's 'crimson s .tr?k; And oft the glist'ning radiance, mildly. wan, Falls on a bee too beautiful' for man; While from the riven helm esca!?l have re]i'd Dark braided tresses, or dishevell'd gold. "ris Gallia's ma?d, who by her wm'rior's side In danger triumph?dj an(l devoted died. 0 woman, with thy -?ee :what strength combines ! Faithful as ivy to the shaftit twines, Which closer still in ruin clasps it round, And gives intum th? kind support it found? ......... ?Google
� WATERLOO. 357 Contrasted lies. with features sternly set, Each ghastlier corse, which seems to menace yet: The war-horse stiff; his head thrown wildly back, And limbs extended as on torture's rack. And here, and there, about the horrid plain, The wounded, stumbling o'er the heaps of slain, Glare on each other with impatient eyes, And look the vengeances their weak arm denies. Or thou m.ay'st see some sad survivor bend O'er the cold relics of an only friend. Oh, there are hearts s that ca?. but blend with one, And earth becomes a void when that is gone ! There hover too the hatpies of the strife, Whose poignard drinks?the last of ebbing life. Greedy as Death, with Death the spoil they share, Fiercely away the warrior?s arms they tear, Cuirass, and spear, whose shine is dlmm'd in blood, lidmet, and plume, all trampled deep in mud, Deaf to th' imploring groans, that feebly burst From the poor victims of insatiate thirst? .?11--all.is horror ! Spare the aching sight, Nor close in gloom the triumphs of the fight. Oh what a change one fleeting day has wrought, Too wild for fancy, and too swift for thought ! ......... ?Google
� 358' waT?.a?.oo. How different now the solemn ?alm, tha? r?igns, From that, which lu!Fd last e'v? ?h' expectant plains ! Then apprehension thrill'd, or hope beat high, Now all is hush'd in silent certainty. And where is he, whose madly-daring hand Pil'd the dread pyre, then to'ss'd th? kindling brand ? He far away pursues his' hurried flight,' Invoking all the deel?st slmdes of nighi. O greatly-fall'n, and ?ould'st thou !iear t6 fly, Outcast from fame, no ?ess ? victor? ? FaWn like th? avalanche,' all powerless laid, That melts amid the wrecks itself had made.' Did'st thou noi seem the Prussian's' shriek to hea?, And groans fro TM Jaffa munnur'd in'thine ear'? Frowning in Angel's wrath see Wright succeed, And murder'd D'Enghien asks; '? Who bade me bleed ?." Farewell ! If Conscience l{ave not'lost her power, Her frowns will' dar!?en the a?enging hour. Yes, all is o'er ! ' Domin?on, glory, fame; Shrink in Napoleon to an empty name.' As the proud Aloe, h?il'd with wondering gaze, Towers in an age with bloom, that ?oon decays, So past away his pageantry, and power, Ripen'd thro' years, bu? wither'd in an hour: And he, who climb'd ?hm' rapine, waste, and To Fame's st?eep heigh?---Chief--Consul?Emperor-- } ......... ?Google
� .WATERLOO. ..359 _At once from Emperor to nothing hurl'd, ' ' Has left to peace th' arena of the world. Yes; all is.q'er ! War's sto.rm has past away, And earth reviving shines in clearer day. The world re-blooms, Peace flourishes anew Like thy ow?, field, victorious Waterloo ! Where, .for the ghastly corses of the slain, Fair pleaty piles her sheaves of golden grain; Or verdure freshly..springs,. and flowerets wave, In vernal be?u. ty, o'er the. warrior's grave. Proud theatre of Freedom ! Blest domain, Where injur'd Justice dar'd assert her reign, Still shalt thou live, still boast the Despot's fall, Twin'd with high names, yet'loffier than them all. Heart-kindling spot, to thee shall Fancy stray, To thee the bard still consecrate his lay; Still many a pilgrim roam thy vale around, Lingering, as if the spot were.holy ground, Ev'n tho' he shed no heart-wrung, bitter tear For death too kindred, and for woe too near; Hail'd in each clime, by unborn ages sung, Whose fate on thee in wavering balance hung. While oak, or olive binds each nation's brow, And mourning Brunswick wreathes the cypress bough, While France, yet trembling from Destruction?s flood, Wears her pale Lily, stain'd with filial blood, ......... ?Google,
� 360 WATEaLOO. To Albion the triumphant Laurel yield, Reap'd with her sword on thy unrivall'd field High Arbitress of nations, Oceau's Queen, In might majestic, in success serene, Where, calm in joy, her smiling front she rears, Yet fondly weeps with all a Mother's tears, Gaze on the regal crown, that gems her brows, Where 'mid the brightness, brighter lustre glows, That dazzling glory, that diviner hue Darts from thy name, immortal Waterloo ! THE, EI?D. ......... ?Google
� WATERLOO. This, like a wheel, but kindling as it goes, That, ev'n at rest, with native ardour glows. Oh, how contrasted is the vivid scene, Where not a pause for thought can intervene, With thee, sad Brussels, to thy fears resign'd, 347 Where thought grows madness in the o'er-wrought. mind! Less dread the hour, when, rous'd at peep of morn, From circling arms, Sons, Husbands, Friends were torn. And they, who staid, again rush'd forth to heart Once more the voice, most grateful to their ear; Taught by the nature of the heart to dwell So long-so fondly-on that word, "farewell!" And wish it still repeated o'er, and o'er, As if it had not reach'd the soul before. But now the breast, with fiercer, deadlier throe, Pants in the crisis of its joy, or woe: Links all it sees, with all it wildly feels, Deems every sound some oracle reveals, And strains each fever'd nerve, 'till all things seem The dark phantasma of a hideous dream. Time seems to stagnate o'er th' unvaried day In one broad blank of terror and dismay. Unheeded now the sabbath's solemn rites,* The battle of Waterloo was fought on a Sunday. 348 WATERLOO. Its toil suspended, and its calm delights. The bells sound faintly, as the ringer's hand Palsied with dread, had lost its own command. And who can bid their sacred summons hail? Heard ye not deeper sounds upon the gale?- The cannon's ceaseless roar, which Fancy's ear, As the breeze freshens, list'ning, deems more near. Yet haply to some small, retiring fane The holy pastor draws his simple train: Pale-yet serene his front-his silver hair More touch'd by time than bleach'd by earthly care. Silent awhile, his eyes, uprais'd to heaven, Declare whence all his strength is sought, and given; Then, as they fall, the sacred book he opes, And points the source, whence spring his tranquil hopes. He speaks of Him, who all things can perform, And reins the battle, as he guides the storm. They hang upon his lips; each face has caught From his a portion of the peace it sought. Amid the turbulence, that raves around, The hurrying crowd-the battle's swelling sound- This seems the last retreat, where Peace hath fled. Trembling to hide her meek, unshelter'd head. A Heaven in Hell-a star of lovely light, That brightest shines thro' severing clouds of night; WATERLOO. Eolian notes, that still most sweetly cast Their melting music on the rudest blast. 349 But, oh, for thee, brave Warrior, who afar From thine own isle dost bear the brunt of war, Wild are this sabbath's rites;-the cannons roar For bells' glad music on thy native shore. For the sweet hymn the onset's madd'ning ery, Shrieks of the wounded, groans of those, who die. The foe's stern greeting, for the peaceful train, Who only meet, to seek the sacred fane. No prayer, save that in hurried silence given, Which but commends the parting soul to Heaven. No rest-ah, yes!-a rest, which nought shall break, "Till the pale sleepers of the tomb awake. Ah, to that scene the muse reluctant turns, Where the groan deepens, and the combat burns; Or, if it pause, war's rage awhile represt Is but the earthquake's interval of rest. Tho' to the west declines the wearied sun, Unglutted carnage seems but new begun. Swells the full fight, commingled; not, as erst, Fix'd to one point, but in one general burst. As clouds, that late o'er ether wide were driven, Meet, mix, and combat in the midst of Heaven. 350 WATERLOO. And darkest there, in dreadful might serene, Frowning like Death, are Brunswick's warriors seen; Whose dauntless bands, in memory of their chief, Bear the sad hue of undissembling grief; Yet seems it now no soft regret to shew, But black revenge, and hate more stern than woe. Where La Haye Sainte extends her shatter'd walls, Faithful in death the Hanoverian falls. Still rolls the dread artillery along, Pours its loud peal, and thins th' embattled throng. Still Gallia chafes, still Albion scorns to yield, And falling numbers darken all the field. See, see! what blaze shoots upwards from the vale? What dark smoke soars where war-clouds cannot sail? What deaf'ning thunders, what terrific jar Swells with new horrors the loud voice of war? As bursts from Etna's womb the fiery birth, Towers to the sky, and shakes th' affrighted earth. "Tis the wide ravage of th' infernal shell! Alas! on Britain's bravest band it fell; Where Hougoumont's beleaguer'd towers aspire, Moated with blood, and canopied with fire. But dare not look within! oh close the ear. Against those shrieks 'twere agony to hear! Pent in those fatal walls the wounded lie; None, none may succour, and they cannot fly! Oh, who can tell the horrors of that hour, 351 When Death seem'd dallying with his savage power? When the poor victim must perforce await, Not with high ardour meet and dare his fate. Hark, to that rattling, grating, shiv'ring crash! Down the roof rushes-down the rafters dash. A moment's darkness-then the flame again Starts, like a strengthen'd giant, from the plain: Around-within-above-o'er tower and wall Shakes its red tresses, spreads its lurid pall; Then unrelenting pours its blasting breath Fierce on its human prey--and all is death! Not such thy fate, young hero of the band, Who those proud walls unconquerably mann'd, Brave Craufurd, dauntlessly thy valour's glow. Led the bold sally full upon the foe. Alas, too well was aim'd the fatal ball! And, oh, what promise perish'd in thy fall! Thomas, son of Sir James Craufurd, Lieutenant in the third Guards. The command of the detachment at Hougoumont had devolved upon him, in consequence of two superior officers being killed. If it be objected, that I have singled out one, where all were brave, let private feeling plead my excuse. 352 WATERLOO. While Memory lives, in silent woe, shall bend. O'er thy lov'd dust the parent-brother-friend. For thee the Muse a fadeless wreath would twine, And wed the name of Hougoumont to thine. Where is Britannia's chief?-Go-range where'er Threatens worst peril; thou shalt find him there. He is the soul of War. His words inspire, His dauntless looks, the keen electric fire. Nor more obey'd than lov'd; and, oh, how well Let dying Gordon, and Delancey tell! Oh, how more true their warm affection's zeal, Than all that Gallia for her Chief can feel! Tho' wild devotion in her sons is seen, "Tis love of self behind that nobler screen. Their idol-Glory-they in him adore, Success has crown'd him, and they ask no more. And thou, Napoleon, who, on yonder height, From morn 'till eve, hast watch'd the dubious fight, From Albion's Chieftain, oh, how different far Thine hopes of conquest, and thine art of War!! Not thine, like him, where danger frowns to lead, But wave thy legions where they die, or bleed. Thou can'st not weep with him above the slain,
Thou only mournest thine have fall'n in vain. O could I read thy bosom, and declareThe wilder fray, that boils, and rages there;
How from hot hope thro' ev'ry change it past,
Fear—rage—hate—terror—to despair at last!
Go then! the fool of passion, as of fame,
Play the last stake of Fortune's desp'rate game!
Cheer to the field thine own imperial band,
Who wait the waving of thy haughty hand,
To pour their souls in that unequall'd strife
For him, who recks but of one coward life!
Brave self-devotion! Such as Romans knew,
A nobler cause had made it virtue too.
'Tis done! Wild clamours rend th' etherial vault,
Herald their way, and cheer the last assault.
Now for your England, warriors, all combine,
Quit the deep phalanx, form the length'ning line!
Now is war's crisis! Daringly exchange
Firmness for fire, resistance for revenge!
Be as the wave, which once suspended stood,
Then pour'd on Egypt's train its whelming flood.
See how the conquering Sun has roll'd away
The throng of clouds, that veil'd his gloomy day,[2]
And beams effulgent in the western sky,
As if to light your troops to victory.
Reflected lustre from the bayonet streams,
And crested helms give back the level beams.
As, rising oft in far Arabia's land,
Whirl the red columns of collected sand,
Ting'd by the setting sun's dilated fire,
Proud to the skies the pillar'd flames aspire,
And sweep tremendous o'er the ravag'd plain,
While the pale pilgrim strives to fly in vain:
So nobly dread, so formidably bright
Mov'd England's host in all the pomp of light.
Strong as from peace, and fresh as from repose,
Now—now she rushes on her yielding foes.
The clearing smoke their hurrying rout reveals;
All France gives way—a throne—an empire reels!
Wildly they fly, or bend the suppliant knee,
England is victor, and the world is free!
Distracted Uproar lords it o'er the plain:
Where bleed the wounded, or where sink the slain,
Onward they drive, pursuers, and pursued,
Nor check their footsteps deep in blood embrued.
Rout and Confusion, Fear, and Death are there,
And the pale form of pitiless Despair.
That the tir'd Briton checks his panting steed!
Fresh, and unbreath'd, impetuous as the wave,
Greedy as wolves, relentless as the grave,
The Prussian comes, his sword in blood unsteep'd,
To gather in the harvest England reap'd.
Hope not for mercy! Did ye mercy shew,
When pale Silesia saw her conquering foe?
Remember Ligny, where the flag of Death
Wav'd its black menace o'er the host beneath.[3]
The Briton, bulwark'd by his rocky strand,
Ne'er saw thee blight the gardens of his land.
No injur'd wife, no murder'd offspring call
His soul to vengeance on the cruel Gaul:
But there are wrongs, too deep to be redrest,
That fret, and rankle in the Prussian's breast.
The cup of vengeance holds its mantling draught
Close to his lips,—and deep shall it be quaff'd!
Oh, for a night of tempest, gloom, and cloud!
Uprose the Moon, unclouded, broad, and bright,
In all the beauty of a summer's night.
Heedless of men, alike she seems to move
O'er fields of carnage, or the peaceful grove,
The dread pursuit of foes, or harmless scenes of love.
Now her pale lamp she holds o'er Slaughter's hand,
Guides the sure blow, and points the vengeful brand.
Onward they rush, 'till the reflected beam
Quivers on Sambre's gently-gliding stream.
Ah, gentle now no more! The broken wave
Flashes above the soldier's wat'ry grave.
The stifled groan, the frequent plunge declare
That foemen slay, and warriors perish there.
O'er the wide plain, where rag'd the desperate fight,
Death's banquet-room, where wildly mingled lie
The wrecks of his tremendous revelry.
The pale ray gleams on many a paler cheek,
Distain'd alone by slaughter's crimson streak;
And oft the glist'ning radiance, mildly wan,
Falls on a face too beautiful for man;
While from the riven helm escap'd have roll'd
Dark braided tresses, or dishevell'd gold.
'Tis Gallia's maid, who by her warrior's side
In danger triumph'd, and devoted died.
Faithful as ivy to the shaft it twines,
Which closer still in ruin clasps it round,
And gives in turn the kind support it found!
Each ghastlier corse, which seems to menace yet:
The war-horse stiff; his head thrown wildly back,
And limbs extended as on torture's rack.
And here, and there, about the horrid plain,
The wounded, stumbling o'er the heaps of slain,
G'are on each other with impatient eyes,
And look the vengeance, their weak arm denies.
Or thou may'st see some sad survivor bend
O'er the cold relics of an only friend.
Oh, there are hearts, that can but blend with one,
And earth becomes a void when that is gone!
There hover too the harpies of the strife,
Whose poignard drinks the last of ebbing life.
Greedy as Death, with Death the spoil they share,
Fiercely away the warrior's arms they tear,
Cuirass, and spear, whose shine is dimm'd in blood,
Helmet, and plume, all trampled deep in mud,
Deaf to th' imploring groans, that feebly burst
From the poor victims of insatiate thirst.
All-all is horror! Spare the aching sight,
Nor close in gloom the triumphs of the fight.
Too wild for fancy, and too swift for thought!
How different now the solemn calm, that reigns,
From that, which lull'd last eve th' expectant plains!
Then apprehension thrill'd, or hope beat high,
Now all is hush'd in silent certainty.
And where is he, whose madly-daring hand
Pil'd the dread pyre, then toss'd the kindling brand?
He far away pursues his hurried flight,
Invoking all the deepest shades of night.
O greatly-fall'n, and could'st thou bear to fly,
Outcast from fame, no less than victory?
Fall'n like the avalanche, all powerless laid,
That melts amid the wrecks itself had made.
Did'st thou not seem the Prussian's shriek to hear,
And groans from Jaffa murmur'd in thine ear?
Frowning in Angel's wrath see Wright succeed,
And murder'd D'Enghien asks, "Who bade me bleed?"
Farewell! If Conscience have not lost her power,
Her frowns will darken the avenging hour.
Yes, all is o'er! Dominion, glory, fame,
Shrink in Napoleon to an empty name.
As the proud Aloe, hail'd with wondering gaze,
Towers in an age with bloom, that soon decays,
So past away his pageantry, and power,
Ripen'd thro' years, but wither'd in an hour:
And he, who climb'd thro' rapine, waste, and war,
To Fame's steep height—Chief—Consul—Emperor—
At once from Emperor to nothing hurl'd,
Has left to peace th' arena of the world.
Yes; all is o'er! War's storm has past away,
And earth reviving shines in clearer day.
The world re-blooms, Peace flourishes anew
Like thy own field, victorious Waterloo!
Where, for the ghastly corses of the slain,
Fair Plenty piles her sheaves of golden grain;
Or verdure freshly springs, and flowerets wave,
In vernal beauty, o'er the warrior's grave.
Proud theatre of Freedom! Blest domain,
Where injur'd Justice dar'd assert her reign,
Still shalt thou live, still boast the Despot's fall,
Twin'd with high names, yet loftier than them all.
Heart-kindling spot, to thee shall Fancy stray,
To thee the bard still consecrate his lay;
Still many a pilgrim roam thy vale around,
Lingering, as if the spot were holy ground,
Ev'n tho' he shed no heart-wrung, bitter tear
For death too kindred, and for woe too near;
Hail'd in each clime, by unborn ages sung,
Whose fate on thee in wavering balance hung.
While oak, or olive binds each nation's brow,
And mourning Brunswick wreathes the cypress bough,
While France, yet trembling from Destruction's flood,
Wears her pale Lily, stain'd with filial blood,
To Albion the triumphant Laurel yield,
Reap'd with her sword on thy unrivall'd field
High Arbitress of nations, Ocean's Queen,
In might majestic, in success serene,
Where, calm in joy, her smiling front she rears,
Yet fondly weeps with all a Mother's tears,
Gaze on the regal crown, that gems her brows,
Where 'mid the brightness, brighter lustre glows,
That dazzling glory, that diviner hue
Darts from thy name, immortal Waterloo!
THE END.
Maurice, Printer, Fenchurch Street.
- ↑ Written for the Chancellor's Prize at Cambridge, 1820.—As this poem is not published with the slightest intention of impugning the decision, which awarded the prize to another composition; many parts, which were omitted when it was sent in, have been again inserted, and some corrections have been made.
The order of events forms the plan of the poem. With the exception of one digression to Brussels, it has been scrupulously observed. - ↑ A tempestuous night had ushered in a day of rain, and gloom, but the evening was bright and serene.
- ↑ At the battle of Ligny, the French hoisted the black flag, which signified that no quarter would be given.