CHAPTER IV.

But La Haye Sainte to Donzelot’s infantry fell-- The heroic Frenchman fought there nobly and well-- Thus securing the Emperor a lodgment sought, A strategic point for a decisive onslaught On Wellington’s centre, that he still seeks to gain, Where his best troops were broken, and broken in vain.

Blucher is coming! hear his guns’ opening roar, Pressing the right of the French, now in peril sore. The Emperor detaches Lobau’s corps complete And Dumont’s horse this fatal new danger to meet. But Bulow turns Lobau’s left, and Planchenoit is won Near to the going down of the red summer’s sun. But the Emperor checks Bulow with his Young Guard, And for a time they gallantly keep watch and ward O’er the right of the French, fighting desperately there-- Still hopeful, though desperately assailed everywhere.

Will the Emperor’s star of destiny go down to-day, And his vast fabric be swept forever away? His sun of victory set now to rise no more, And the splendor of his dreams die on War’s stern shore?

Avalanches of attack he still hurls on the foe; Ceaselessly and recklessly they surge to and fro All along the Duke’s firm lines, but surging in vain. The bright valor of Britain those stern lines maintain Unbroken by the desperate destroying strife, Though to maintain them thousands are bereft of life. The stratagems of a lifetime could not prevail; His hitherto decisive moves were of no avail. He might hurl his raging storms of grapeshot and shell, He might thunder as the ravening maw of hell, Hurl his cavalry _en masse_ on the devoted squares, Rush his infantry forward, and lay his deep snares, Which must have ruined any other army complete, Slaughtered, dismembered, and put to retreat; But the Britons stood steadfast in undaunted pride, And the legions of France they dared and defied. And they cumbered death’s valley with the enemy slain, Like sheaves in the ripe harvest of winnow and wain. And thus sorely assailed near the set of the sun, The Iron Duke exclaims, “Would that night or Blucher might come!”

The hour of seven o’clock had now been told, Still the rage of the battle uncertain rolled. Like gladiators of old they tugged and tore, And gory thousands have fallen to rise no more. The burning issues of the day are deep and wide-- Shall Europe have liberty from the despotic pride Of Imperial France, waged by a single mind, A genius of war, to human sufferings blind? But his fate is approaching in the lurid gleam Of the loud raging cannon, and the living stream Of Britain’s deathless valor, that will never yield, And they’ll win it or perish, this desperate field.

A dark mass near La Belle Alliance is seen to form Into gigantic columns, to drive like a storm In irresistible fury o’er the death-strewn plain, To o’erwhelm the Duke’s centre and cut him in twain. They are the Old Guard and Young, twelve thousand and more, Veterans of a hundred battles, who o’er and o’er Had grasped victory from defeat on many a field. Surely Britain’s array to these powers must yield. The Emperor reserved them for a _coup de main_, And he sent them forward assured they would gain For him the victory. And their triumphant cheer Of “_Vive l’Empereur!_” rose from souls void of fear. Majestically they descend the slope of the hill,-- ’Tis a sight the most stony of natures to thrill, The _elite_ of the French army, as onward they go, The heroes of Austerlitz, Wagram, and Marengo. Between Hougomont and La Haye Sainte lies their way, Where the British await them there, sternly at bay.

Now with redoubled vigor their batteries thunder On the allied lines, firmly waiting yonder, Where the devastating missiles ruthlessly pour ’Mid the horrible din and the deafening roar Of the deadly conflict raging frightfully there, And the moans of the dying and cries of despair. The drooping spirits of his lines he must reanimate, And sends an _aide-de-camp_ at a lightning rate To announce that Grouchy is coming--is near-- And his divisions lift up their voices and cheer.

Now from La Haye Sainte Donzelot pushes again An avalanche of attack, like withering flame. On the left centre of the allies, bruised and sore, Are the stern German brigades, firm as rocks; and o’er The din and tumult the French legions might hear The shout of defiance and the Germans’ grand cheer. “They’re coming! the attack will be the centre, my lord,” Said Lord Fitzroy Somerset, waving his good sword, And directing, as he spoke, his glass on the foe, The advancing columns in the red vale below. “I see it,” was Wellington’s unmoved reply, As he ordered Maitland’s brigade to deploy, and lie Down behind the ridge of the torn sheltering hill, For a few moments longer restraining their will. In front of them are formed in a firm red line A brigade of infantry abiding their time. On the right of the Guards is Adams’s brigade, Waiting the dread shock as though on parade. Stationed above, and partly upon the road, The grim guns form up, and quickly, silently load With grape, and await the signal there to open-- Though all hearts are aflame, not a word is spoken.

It is an awful moment, one to try men’s souls, And the horrible din all about them rolls. On the far left the Prussians are pounding away, But the brave French fight sternly and hold them at bay. All along our grand lines the French batter in vain, Though the dead strew the hills and encumber the plain.

Dark masses of Guards climb the slope of the hill, Stately columns coming on with confidence still; Their guns cease fire as above the ridge they now show, Tipped with the gleam of the sunset’s red glow. Then began that cheer those who heard never could forget-- From those famed Belgian hills doth it echo yet. From Hougomont, near the right, with its blood-stained walls, To Papalotte on the left, it thunders and falls In long-restrained, pent-up vengeance; and through The true instinct that valor teaches well they knew The hour of trial had come, when that wild cry flew From rank to rank, as it echoed and thundered anew. “They come! they come!” repeat it, and shout it again; And “_Vive l’Empereur!_” rolls up from the plain.

Preceded by a tempest of grapeshot and shell, And a charge of cavalry that fought nobly and well, Ney’s column fired its volley and advanced again With the bayonet, and was met by roar and flame Of our raging guns that now rent him through and through. The dark columns of the Guards, as near us they drew, Moved obliquely to the right, then on they came-- A desperate movement in a desperate game. Adams’ brigade on their left flank’s deployed four deep, And the dark ranks of the Old Guard they rend and sweep By successive volleys. Hot and scathing they fell; And the blows they delivered told nobly and well. But though scathed and mangled, still on they came,-- A noble chivalry, to preserve a stainless fame. All Europe acknowledges a devotion sublime That shall live for ever in the annals of time. Ney, himself on foot, at their fearless head is found; Twice his leading divisions are turned around As the destroying fire wastes and consumes him there; But his dauntless soul knoweth no craven despair!

By the prestige of a hundred battles sustained, The crest of the hill they have already gained. The artillery close up; the flanking fire from the guns On the road dismembers, slaughters, shrivels and stuns The famous Old Guard; and with their front blown away Can they still crush the British and thus win the day? The Duke seized the moment and instantly cried, “Up, Guards, and at them!” And they uprose in stern pride, As stately as ever, aye, as ever was seen; And the sun’s setting glory threw o’er them its sheen.

The hour of fierce triumph and vengeance had come At the going down of the warm, peaceful June sun. One deadly volley on the coming French they pour, And three hundred are death-stricken to rise no more. Then with the bayonet they charge, knowing no fear; On the French foe they rush with a wild British cheer. Then came the most dreadful struggle all war can present-- Crashing columns of heroes, blood-stained and rent. Foot to foot, and eye to eye, they stagger and reel By the furious crash of the ringing cold steel. Long restrained, the British are furious now, And passionate valor burns on each stern brow.

And the French generals fall fast on every side: Michel, Jamier, and Mallet have heroically died, And Friant is sore wounded and helplessly falls; Ney, his dress pierced and ragged and torn by balls, Shouts to his wavering legions still to advance Once more for the Emperor and Imperial France! But his leading files now waver and hesitate On the brink and the ruin of impending fate. The British press down upon them sternly and well; The cavalry gallop up, and at last pell mell, Overwhelmed and beaten, the torn French fall back O’er the winnows of slain that encumber their track. The decisive moment of the awful day had come, And a thrill through the grand allied ranks did run.