CHAPTER V.

“The field is won! Order the whole line to advance. Roll _en masse_ on the wavering legions of France.” Thus ordered the Duke, and a responsive cry Of joy and glad triumph pealed up to the sky.

On they came four deep, and like a torrent poured From the heights; and our hot guns boomed and roared. A fiery wave of valor they rolled on the foe, And irresistibly swept them to the valley below. All along our lines, from Papelotte to Merc Braine, Rose that thund’rous cheer of great triumph again.

“Let the Life Guards charge them,” here the Iron Duke said; And a grand brigade of horse, by Lord Uxbridge led, Rode down on the French centre, sabreing them there. Broken and dispirited, they waver in despair. Incessantly our cavalry charge on the foe, Flashing and flaming in the lurid sunset’s glow; Piercing and dismembering the French everywhere, While the infantry press forward the laurels to share. With the bayonet the foe they sweep from their path, A Nemesis of fate in o’erpowering wrath. The Prussian guns play on their right flank and their rear; The British bayonet in front; while a panic of fear Spreads through their wavering ranks, and the hopeless cry Of “_Sauve qui peut!_” resounds from their ranks reeling by. All in vain Marshal Ney, “the bravest of the brave,” Soult, Bertrand, Gourgand, and Labedoyer, to save The day, burst from the disorganiz’d mass, and on them call To stand firm, to conquer, or heroically fall! “For the Emperor and sunny Imperial France. Steady the lines and re-form, and again advance.” A battalion of the Old Guard alone obey. With brave Cambronne at their head, between the prey And their pursuers they form into square and stand, A sacrifice offering ’mid the ruin at hand-- An offering to the tarnished honor of their arms Irretrievably ruined and fleeing in swarms Of disorganized masses before that oncoming wave Of British valor. No earthly power can save The lost day! Ruin’d and beaten, and drifting away Before that magnificent advance and array Of chivalry, worthy of “the brave days of old.” Glorified in the sunset, onward it rolled! Through the “valley of the shadow of death” they go, Devastatingly rolling upon the lost foe!

Meanwhile, near La Belle Alliance, the Emperor still Had some regiments in reserve, biding his will; And was rapidly rallying his beaten Old Guard, Hitherto invincible--the watch and the ward Of his army--the last card in the desperate play Of the game of war, hitherto winning the day. The remnants of his cavalry he’d collected, too, Still hoping the British to pierce and break through.

But the Duke’s eagle eye fathoms his useless game, And his valiant soul is now grandly aflame As he launches Vivian’s cavalry brigade Against him. And oh, the immortal charge they made! Through the “valley of the shadow of death” they tore, And on La Belle Alliance like a torrent pour, Sweeping all before them--cavalry, Old Guard, and all; And like destroying angels on his reserves they fall. Completely successful, they rode calmly back again Proudly over the lurid, ensanguined plain! O gallant hussars of a famous brigade, All time shall echo the destroying charge ye made!

The Emperor strives his disasters to repair, And with lightning speed rides thither, everywhere, Commanding, ordering, imploring, but in vain. Broken and confused, they only exclaim, “_Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!_” and fly swift from the frightful field, Despairing masses that stagger and reel In inextricable confusion of headlong flight, Into the gloom and darkness of the falling night. The Emperor by his staff was now borne away, And disappeared in the shadows dim and gray-- Disappeared, and his sun will rise nevermore; Gone down on the “soldier of destiny” for evermore; But on freed Europe the sun of peace doth rise, And the acclaims of freedom peal up to the skies.

British valor all Europe never can forget; On that “field of fields” it is flaming grandly yet, And Wellington’s fame to posterity is given, Through storm and tempest unsullied, unriven.

Who can forget the close of that eventful day? And the meeting there in the fading twilight gray Of Wellington and Blucher, clasping hands again Mutely over the heaps of wounded and slain? Clasping hands as brothers, with hearts too full to speak, While tears wash the battle stain from the soldier’s cheek! Aye, that was a meeting the world cannot forget, And the effect is lasting, it endureth yet.

EXULTATION.

All hail, old Scotia’s invincible clans, And the gallant sons of Erin’s green isle, And Britain’s indomitable men-at-arms! The genius of fair fame doth on them smile. United, ye are e’er invincible, A trinity that will not be denied, The fate of imperial France at Waterloo, The humbler of Napoleon’s despotic pride.

THE LAMENT FOR THE DEAD.

But, oh, the sight of that pent red field, Weird and terrible for evermore! ’Mid the awful silence of the slain, Britain’s generous heart is sore. Though the laurels of fame crown her brow, She mourns for her immortal slain; Though famous fore’er and signalized, She bows her illustrious head in pain.

Thousands marshalled there that sweet June morn, Strong and beautiful, side by side; Eve saw them in eternal repose-- Fearless in heart they dared and died. Play solemn dirges and bear them away, Play them tenderly, soft and low; Let the drum’s muffled tone fall on the ear, Steadily, mournfully, and slow.

Reverently in the valley of death Lay them away to final sleep; Fit place to crown the immortal dead, Where brave, true comrades o’er them weep. Oh, soldier hearts! grand, intrepid souls! The years thy laurels shall renew; Britain thy devotion ne’er can forget, On that field of fields--Waterloo.

THE DOVE’S SONG.

Listen! for I hear the dove’s sweet song, So tender and mournfully sad, Up from the vale where the maples bloom, And the springtime e’er maketh glad. Hast wandered afar from a fairer clime? Was thy home in Southern bowers? Is life more fair, and more fragrant the air, Than in this grand Northland of ours?

Tell me, sweet dove; for thy mournful voice Hath wakened old memories to-day That have only slept through the weary years That have silently flown away. Art thou mateless and all alone, sweet dove, That thy dear song is never gay? Art thou calling down the emerald glades In vain, pleadingly, day by day?

Thy plaintive voice stirs a tenderness Called up from the shadowed deeps, Where a pale light flickers o’er hidden graves, And a dream-world forever sleeps. Surely ’tis lovely enough, sweet dove, O’er the hills that are sunny and sweet; And the lilies bloom in the vale below-- Nature’s sweetness lies at thy feet.

The sun and the wind are caressing thee, And all other songsters are gay; Canst thou not forget, and joyously sing As the bright hours pass away? ’Tis ever the same, and ’twill ever be A mysterious, subtle regret; There are losses that sadden evermore, And they cling to the worn heart yet.

BLINDED EYES.

The silver band was playing divinely At the close of a perfect summer day; And my heart in unison was throbbing, As I brushed a tender tear away. In the soft glow of the golden sunset I saw two poor blinded eyes upturned To the purpling skies, so fair and deep, And my soul with sympathy yearned.

He had caught the tender, passionate strains, Swelling and dreamily dying away, As wave after wave sweetly rose and fell, The soul welling up in immortal lay. The light softly fell on his blinded eyes, And over his speaking and careworn face Stole a holy light unutterable; A glow of ecstasy there I could trace.

His soul was attuned to melodious strains. What he saw through his weary sightless eyes I never may know; but surely it was A glimpse of the heavenly paradise. For surely God’s pity is reaching down To the help of the poor and sightless here; And He takes the poor groping toil-worn hands, And points the way to the heavenly sphere.

The sun went down, and the sad shadows came Merging into the dreamy, soft twilight; The music ceased, and we stole away Into the deepening gloom of night. And in the dream and mystery of life We move along on our separate ways; But the pleading look of those sightless eyes Will follow me all my allotted days.

Ah, me! we, too, are oft blindly groping In the weird darkness and danger alone; We see not the dread pitfalls before us, And oft are defeated and overthrown. Sometimes, through the cold mist and the dimness, We catch a glimpse of resplendent day, And a strain of sweetest music supernal, The refrain of a distant celestial lay.

THE VETERANS’ REUNION.

After the flight of thirty long years They came at the welcome call; Someone had suggested a reunion Of the “old corps,” one and all. They came from the village and crossroads, The town, the shop, and the farm; Just as they did thirty years ago, When their hearts were young and warm.

They met at the “campfire” of reunion, Clasped hands as comrades once more, Recalled the deeds of the dauntless past, And their campaigns recounted o’er. “Fall in!” the old commander shouted, “Fall in--after thirty years!” With the same old ring, save a tremble, And his eyes were misty with tears.

And they formed in column by the left, “Proved” in sections and in fours, Just as they did thirty years ago, Guarding our frontier shores. But not with the same quick precision As when young and strong and gay; But they did it, and with kindling eyes, Though old and worn and gray.

“Call the roll!” the old major ordered, “Call the living and the dead!” And a solemn hush fell along the line, And bowed was each veteran head. The orderly stepped to the centre, In front of the grand “old corps,” And called the names that were dimmed by time, As he had thirty years before.

And the “Tommy A’s” along the line Answered, “Here, sir!” or “Dead! dead!” The sections were thinned by the march of time, Where all youthfulness had fled. A route march through the town was taken And the people _en masse_ turned out, And greeted the flag and the grand “old corps” With welcome and loyal shout.

Then they deploy from column to line, And turn to the right in fours; And the band and the colors anon “take post,” And the loyal heart upsoars. They “squared” their shoulders, and looked to the front, And the air was rent with cheers; The band struck up, and they marched away To the “British Grenadiers.”

But not as they did thirty years ago, For time mars the soldier’s form; Not so erect or steady the pace, But to-day their old hearts are warm. And, if need be, for the Union Jack E’en yet they would take their stand, To fight for the flag all love so well, And our fair Canadian land.

Their ranks are formed for the last grand march Down to a strange riverside-- The wonderful river all must reach, That is deep and dark and wide. They soon will have gained its margin-- God grant them safe transport o’er, And a campfire and grand reunion, A bivouac on the other shore.

DISCREDITED.

Forgotten? aye, cruelly forgotten! Passed by with looks of disdain By the world, whose thin friendship is rotten, That honors but riches and gain. The poor are looked down upon coldly, Though grand men in poverty have died; And I assert, with just indignation, They were slain by the world’s cold pride.

They struggled alone in the valley To win up the far heights of fame; And they pleaded but kind recognition, But you thrust them down coldly again. And you sneered at the lines they had written-- Lines that shall live till time is no more-- Fiery songs that light like a beacon Along many a soul’s dark shore.

And their thoughts were deep and uplifted; They soared like eagles on high, Or delved in the depths of the ocean Of knowledge that borders the sky. They stood on the loftiest mountains, And gazed on the circling spheres Of starry realms, the mystery of space, In ecstasy, rapture, and fears.

They read from the grand book of nature, And traced there the finger of God, In starry ways of the fathomless deeps That lead to man’s future abode. They communed with the mystery of ocean, Heard its billows sing grand and free, As they rose in the storm or sank to repose In murmuring tranquillity.

And over the landscape that rolls away Saw mountain, and river, and stream; The undulations of emerald plains, In the lights and shadows that dream. And they heard the voice of murmuring winds, And the bird songs free and wild, Till their souls were filled with subtle sweets, As nature upon them smiled.

Great souls were theirs, and all things daring To uplift their weak fellowman, Bringing light and freedom to the nations By the searchlights of Justice to scan The wrong and oppression by tyrants wrought, The weak and the helpless enslaved; Counting it gain if but freedom’s cause Was uplifted and fallen man saved.

THE BATTLE OF STONY CREEK.

FOUGHT JUNE 6TH, 1813. AMERICAN FORCE, 3,000; BRITISH, 700. CAPTURED 4 GUNS, 100 PRISONERS, AND BOTH THE AMERICAN GENERALS, CHANDLER AND WINDER.

Forward, into the midnight, Silently, stealthily go,-- Forward, noble “seven hundred,” Like a storm burst on the foe! Not theirs to falter or murmur, But silently to obey; And they move like phantoms forward Through the shadows dim and gray.

Only the signal’s given, Never a spoken word; But their dauntless hearts are burning, By passionate valor stirred. Onward, steadily onward, Moves that heroic line; Softly the night winds murmur, And dimly the pale stars shine.

Pauses now the “seven hundred,” Suppressed is even the breath-- A pause on the brink of midnight, The fateful hour of death! “Fire!” cried the hero Harvey, “On them a dread volley pour;” And a flash leaped bright and blinding, And burst a deafening roar.

Whole ranks were stricken by it Before that withering rain; Then through the tumult ringing Burst Harvey’s cry again: “Forward now the ‘seven hundred’; Close up firm your lines of steel; Sweep the field with the bayonet; Let the foe your fury feel.”

Though the guns rained upon them A tempest of shot and shell, And musketry fiercely volleyed, And many a hero fell, They charged with a ringing cheer Through the batteries’ fierce flame, And fell on the reeling ranks Of the foe, who all in vain

Attempted to stay the sweep Of that line of deadly steel. With their torn and bloody ranks They stagger, and they reel Backward in broken fragments, Back into headlong retreat. All hail “noble seven hundred”! Your victory was complete.

Honor the men of “Stony Creek,” The dauntless, brave “seven hundred”; Long we’ll remember the noble slain. A rescued country wondered At the famous charge they made Under the dome of night, Heroically storming an army, And putting the foe to flight.

VOICES.

O voices! voices! mysterious voices! Why are ye haunting me evermore? Thrilling my soul with your ceaseless murmurs, Like phantom waves on a ghostly shore? And whether by day, toilstained and weary, Or when eve fades into lonesome night, Still in dreams ye haunt me like a vision, Hovering near at the dawn’s pale light.

Some are soothing and laden with sweetness, And others are weary all their days. Ah, how the voices of children move me! God bless their tender, innocent ways! And the voices of old float around me, Though silenced by time’s faded years; Their feet have passed o’er the dark river That winds through the dim vale of tears.

And the voice of the seasons, ever flowing Outward and into the void of time, Sadden my heart with their pain and losses, And the few sweet days that were divine. The voice of winds at the solemn midnight, Through realms of space as they soar on high, Chanting wild dirges o’er land and ocean, ’Neath a dreary moonless, starless sky.

Or caressing the beautiful summer, Sweetly asleep ’neath the silver moon; Or lightly playing o’er mead and moorland, And hills asleep in the golden noon. And the voice of the sea, the strange blue sea, As ’t restlessly ripples on the shore; Or when tempests sweep o’er its heaving bosom And mighty billows in anger roar.

And the voice of the sphere’s silent glory, Forever sweeping the vast unknown; Revolving around some wonderful centre-- O celestial centre!--Alcyone! Listen, my soul (for ’tis not finite), To a song that comes from the infinite shore, Stealing down through the far starry spaces, Repeating its rapture o’er and o’er.

Sometimes ’tis as of a thousand harpers, And a thousand voices blending sweet-- Can it be, my soul, that ’tis an echo Of the angels’ song at the Saviour’s feet? Sing on! sing on, ye mysterious voices! Though I can’t tell all your song would say, We may know the way of the starry spaces When night-time fades into endless day.

DIVIDED.

Hope died to-day, and I’m thinking Of a time that never can be; And my thoughts grow strangely tender In asking and praying for thee.

Thou’st turned away from my pleading The light of thy starry eyes, That rival the purest beaming Of the bluest of summer skies.

Sweet eyes, that sometimes kindled With love-light when I was nigh-- A wistful and tender yearning That mem’ry recalls with a sigh.

Thy voice, so low and so thrilling, And soft as the summer wind That plays o’er the sunlit fountains, Entrancing both heart and mind.

Thy face, as pure as an angel’s, Half veiled by thy golden hair, Star-gemmed with God-like meekness, So kindly, so wondrous fair!

In vain, oh, heart, are thy dreamings! The flowers lie dead on the lea; The sun ’s gone down in the shadows That darken the dreary sea.

The winds moan low o’er the hilltops, The waves sob along the dim shore; And night gathers fast in the valley-- Will the day return nevermore?

THE HURONS.