CANTO II.

I.

Again, Calliope, my song inspire, And sweep the numbers from my falt’ring lyre; Again the joys of war, and warriors, sing, And wake to life each wild-resounding string; Oh! give that verse which soars beyond control, Which fires the genius, and awakes the soul. E’en now, e’en now, impatient of delays, Across my mind thy beamy influence plays.

II.

Bright was the noon!--for Phœbus’ warmest ray Illum’d the slaughters of the dreadful day: 10 Hush’d was each ruder wind!--all nature seem’d to wait In mute attention on a world’s debate. Far as the eye could reach, the breeze could bear, The wand’ring sound, to rapt suspence’s ear; All was one mix’d, and one promiscuous train Of warring heroes, scattered o’er the plain. Thus through the glassy hive the bees we view, Industrious race, their various tasks pursue, Confus’d, dispers’d, to unaccustom’d eyes,-- Yet each a settled occupation plies. 20

III.

The frighten’d skies are red with bursting fire, Warriors on warriors, heaps on heaps expire; The cannon’s roar, the martial music’s sound; The conq’rers’ shouts, and conquer’d’s groans confound. The mighty hosts promiscuously engage, And war terrific, burns with tenfold rage. War! horrid war! whom Death to Pluto bore, ’Mids’t the dark caverns of th’ infernal shore; A dreadful monster, at whose baleful birth, Love, Peace, and Plenty, fled the groaning earth. 30 His form was horrid, ghastly, grim, and fell, No mortal man its terrors e’er can tell! A wreath of skulls his iron temples bound, Where’er he trod, red carnage dy’d the ground,-- All nature wither’d at his dire advance, And nations sunk beneath his lurid glance. Four raging tygers, with tremendous roar, His sweeping car (a thund’ring cannon) bore; Confusion, Flight, and Terror’s wild alarms, Shrieking pursue his all-destroying arms. 40 But to the view, the treach’rous demon show’d A form that bright with glorious beauty glow’d; And held, deceitful, in his bloody hand, Giv’n by Ambition, an enchanted wand-- And this he wav’d! and, to the wond’ring eyes, Sceptres, and crowns, and laurell’d wreaths would rise:-- But now he gloried o’er the Gallic plain, To feast in triumph on the mighty slain.

IV.

O thou, Calliope, the heroes tell, Who, bright with honour and with glory, fell; 50 While Retrospection’s sweetly pensive tear, Moistens the bays that blossom round their bier. For them no friend can soothe the quiv’ring breath, And give the last sad offices of death; For them no prayers of pitying love are giv’n-- No priest consoling points the road to heav’n; Their whit’ning bones no stately urn shall hide,-- No flatt’ring bust--no monument of pride; ’Mids’t piles of slaughter’d thousands lost, they lie, By all forsaken, unregarded die. 60 Yet each seem’d gladly to resign his breath, And hail th’ approach of honourable death: And still in death, o’er each undaunted face, Nought but the pride of heroism you’d trace;-- Each dying warrior, welt’ring on the strand, Still strain’d each nerve to grasp his broken brand.

V.

As Gordon, great in arms, whose glorious name Was ever foremost of the sons of Fame, (With that bright warmth of love and friendly fire, Which only godlike Wellesley can inspire;) 70 Besought his chief, who mingled with the strife, Of danger heedless, to regard his life, A ball, fast hissing on the airy tide, Stretched the brave soldier by his leader’s side. And glorious Canning, ere the shades of death Had numb’d his arm, or stopt his fleeting breath, Rais’d up his eyes to heav’n, and faintly cried, “Ah, bless my chief”--and in that blessing died! The brave Delancey left his native land, 79 Young Hymen’s chaplet, and Love’s plighted hand-- He left them all!--for Honour’s notes afar Proclaim’d the signal of reviving war: Destruction hover’d where his falchion prest, And Fate’s dark lightnings glitter’d round his crest. But Death, with envy, saw his feats that day, Another Death, he thought, had bore his pow’r away; He rais’d his arm--he hurl’d the fatal dart, And bad it moisten in the warrior’s heart; Urg’d by the spectre’s hand, the weapon prest, 89 Pierc’d the knight’s garb, and sunk within his breast,-- Adown his bosom stream’d the ebbing blood, And life came rushing on the purple flood.

VI.

Two British heroes, of a meaner name, That day shone proudly in the field of Fame; Immortal Thonne, and bold Herculean Shawe, Before whose arms, with fear and wond’ring awe, Proud Gallia shrunk; while gasping on the strand, Nine chieftains fell by Thonne’s destructive hand. D’Avigné fam’d throughout the Gallic race, For warlike honours, and for martial grace, 100 Perceiv’d the victor glorying from afar, And spurr’d his courser to the promis’d war: So the fierce tyger stalks the Lybian plain, Exulting o’er the savage nations slain, While o’er each hill, and dark impervious wood, They strive t’ escape the ravisher of blood: Forth from the forest, gaunt with vengeful ire, With stiffen’d mane, and eyes of living fire, Rushes the lion with indignant glow, And pours his fury on the raging foe. 110

VII.

And first D’Avigné rais’d his mighty hand, Bright with the terrors of the wounding brand; Full on the dauntless Briton’s plumy crest The blow descends,--then glances tow’rds the breast; But there it stopt--the sabre’s parrying care Gleam’d cautious down and turn’d the wound to air. The Briton then his weapon rear’d on high, And mark’d the Frenchman with a wary eye; Then sudden swept his vengeful sword around, And stretch’d his victim gasping on the ground; 120 But, as he lay, ere yet the damps of death Had numb’d his arm, or stopp’d his fleeting breath, Against the charger of his conq’ring foe, Full on the chest, he strikes the griding blow[21]; The noble beast, convuls’d by piercing pain, Rear’d his proud form, and shook his flowing mane, Then instant fell--and from the mortal wound, The gushing life’s-blood issued on the ground; Full on his noble master, ere he rose, On ev’ry side resound a hundred blows-- 130 A hundred lances glitter at his breast-- A hundred strokes re-echo on his crest; He strikes--retreats--advances--strives in vain, And adds another to the heaps of slain. Thus falls some tow’r which long has rear’d its form, And mock’d the fury of the raging storm: The fierce besiegers strive each art in vain, To cast its lofty fabric on the plain; At length the treach’rous mine, with secret care, Beneath its strong foundations they prepare; 140 With horrid crash, its crackling piles resound, And fall, a mighty ruin on the ground.

VIII.

Mean time brave Shawe usurps the martial plain, And spreads the field with Gallic heaps of slain; Where beams his sabre, wild confusion brings Terror and death upon her iron wings; A cuirass’d band of Gallic heroes saw His martial prowess with admiring awe. And first Bernot withdrew his wond’ring eyes, And thus the chief with indignation cries:-- 150 “O friends! O soldiers, shall the Gallic name Rest, for a moment, in disgraceful shame? And shall you Briton, glorying from far, Destroy our troops, and thin the ranks of war? Frenchmen, charge forwards! and your king’s applause Awaits your efforts in his glorious cause; For he that sends yon haughty Briton’s head, A worthy off’ring to the noble dead, Napoléon’s self shall grace his radiant name, And age to age perpetuate his fame.” 160 He ceas’d;--and, warm’d by hope, his legion broke Through fires of sulphur, and through mists of smoke[22]: Onwards they roll’d, elate with warrior’s pride, Each soldier charging by his comrade’s side. To check their course, drawn up in firm array, A gallant troop of Britons urge their way. Those arms destructive fill their mighty hands, The bayonet--weapon of the Anglian bands:-- They mingle!--hark! what mighty strokes resound-- What streams of slaughter dye the thirsty ground! 170

IX.

De Bruyere, bending from his saddle-bow, Aim’d first at British Eth’rington his blow. Thirsting for blood the gleaming weapon prest, And forceful pierc’d the Briton’s sable crest:-- He sunk!--but Beauchamp, with indignant eye, Perceived the feat of Gallic bravery, With bayonet charg’d, full rushing on the foe, He pierc’d his courser with a mortal blow;-- He fell!--and Bernot, riding o’er the plain, Trod on his crackling crest and crush’d the brain. 180 Britons and Gauls now gath’ring clos’d around, One war tumultuous shook th’ affrighted ground: Arm rose ’gainst arm, and man encounter’d man; Through ev’ry breast revenge and hatred ran. At length, so fierce the Britons’ rushing force, In vain the Gauls attempt to stop their course: Slow they retreat!--yet, facing to the foe, Defiance threaten, as they sternly go; But Bernot turn’d, and wav’d his hand on high-- “Hold, cowards, hold! nor thus inglorious fly, 190 What, though the fury of yon rushing tide, Our smaller numbers vain attempt to bide; Yet still revenge is ours, yon Briton’s hand[23] Still gives to death the heroes of our land; That mighty warrior, whom we lately swore, Should wreak his fury on our troops no more; Forward with me!--for here again I swear, That if this arm the trusty blade can bear, To meet this dreaded conqueror I fly, I go to conquer--or I go to die!” 200

X.

He spoke!--and wav’d his scymitar on air, And rush’d impatient to the promis’d war. Five Gallic warriors sharing in his wrath, Eager pursue his devastating path; And soon around the mighty Briton close, And pour on ev’ry side a show’r of blows. Ah! cease! the pitying Muse forbids to tell, How great, in death, that gallant hero fell!

Still, undiminish’d, Gaul her numbers pours, Vast as the sand that loads the sea-girt shores. 210 E’en by their vict’ries tir’d, in heaps of slain, Fast fall the Britons on the groaning plain. Yet view the various fortunes of that hour, The Anglians’ weakness, and the Frenchmen’s pow’r, You’d find each British form, that loads the ground, Piere’d by _no backward, no inglorious_ wound. And still no murmurs waste their panting breath, When all around they see the works of death; Still with fresh courage they demand to go, And in their turn to charge th’ exulting foe: 220 “On! let us on!” impetuous they cry, “Not thus inglorious,--scarce opposing,--die.” Chief of the Island sons, how great thy praise!-- How bright thy honour!--and how green thy bays! “Wait yet, my friends,” the pitying chief would say, “And conquest still shall be our own this day,-- Wait yet till come the long-expected force, Till valiant Blücher speeds his driving horse.”

XI.

Yet though his words can animate the heart, And lively courage to each breast impart, 230 Still anxious doubt, though kept in wise control, Chill’d his own cheek, and dampt his mighty soul. If Blücher come not in _one_ passing hour, Full well he knew how weak was all his pow’r. With eagle-eye the squadrons he survey’d, And, where they fainted, sent the timely aid;-- His person, counsel, and his chiefest care, Where most the dreadful dangers of the war, And where, disdaining self, his form he threw, To guard that form, invincible they grew. 240 Though less thy skill, not less thy daring might, Uxbridge! thou pride, thou bulwark of the fight! Shew me, ye Muses of Parnassian shades, A chief more glorious for the horse brigades-- A chief more skill’d to please th’ unconstant fair, Or shine the first, and foremost of the war. But by thy fire of valour led away, A shot, at close of that tremendous day, Mangled thy form, and drove thee from the fray.

XII.

Lo! where Hibernia pours her gen’rous train, 250 Dread of her foes, and foremost of the plain; Bright honour, and the em’rald isle, their cry, To fall is glory--infamy to fly. Mean time, brave Orange, mightiest of his name, Spreads desolation o’er the field of Fame. Great Prince! who, midst the thickest of the strife, Led on by native ardour, risk’d his life. Encompass’d round, amidst the hostile lines, Th’ heroic youth his liberty resigns: A Belgian troop rush timely in, to save 260 The gallant chieftain from an early grave. The brilliant gem, th’ insignia’s regal pride, That matchless hero from his form untied, With grateful ardour, midst the martial crew, The signs of birth and royalty he threw. “Long live our Prince! long live our martial Lord!” Shout Belgia’s hardy sons, with one accord; “Come life, come death, this token we will shield, Through all the dangers of the dreadful field.” 269 Then where their ranks the tow’ring standard grac’d, With pride exulting, the rich ensign plac’d; Along the plain, as driving bail, they pour, And flood the field with many a stream of gore.

XIII.

But, lo! where yonder, what approaching train, Wrapt in a cloud of smoke, obscure the plain?-- ’Tis they!--’tis they!--the long-expected force, ’Tis godlike Blücher rolls his sweeping course;-- ’Tis Bulow, dreadful thunderbolt of war, Leads Prussia’s injur’d warriors from afar; And, as they wound along the mountain’s brow, 280 They hurl’d their cannon on the Gauls below; While the red sulphur, seem’d in pride to dance, On the broad blade, steel crest, and gleaming lance; And, as their bright and lengthen’d squadrons roll’d on high, They seem’d like shadowy legions, gliding through the sky.

Monarch of Gaul, what pangs of hopeless wo Dim thy bright eye, and cross thy thoughtful brow, Where all around thee heaps of death arise, And Prussia’s cannon seem to rend the skies; And where the warlike bands of Cossacks fly, 290 Resolv’d to conquer, or sublimely die;-- Where Briton’s Genius rears her tow’ring head, No longer weeping o’er the glorious dead.

XIV.

Lo! o’er the Monarch’s cheek, a gladd’ning ray Danc’d in his eye, and bad the smile to play, Where on the right his fav’rite legion stands, The imperial guards, those ever-dauntless bands; Swift in the midst his arm he wav’d on high, “On, soldiers on, to conquer, or to die!” Then, where the bravest of the British force, 300 He leads the way, and points their angry course; As when the stormy waves are o’er the deep, With hope of glory on that legion sweep. E’en their brave enemies hung back, and saw Their stern battalions with admiring awe. That man, to whom contending nations bow’d, Whose iron sceptre half a world allow’d-- Whose rapid fortunes urg’d the wheels of Fate-- Whose prosp’rous victories seem’d of endless date, Now shapes his way, and fires his daring band, 310 With Vengeance’ torch terrific in his hand; That band, in mighty deeds of arms renown’d, With valour arm’d, as yet with victory crown’d,-- The sons of conquest, and the flow’r of France, Who fill’d all Europe with alarms, advance.

XV.

Beneath a friendly vale the warriors pause, And thus began the chieftain of their cause:-- “Friends, countrymen! the battle’s dubious fate, The fate of Europe, on your arms await; Should victory crown our efforts, then no more 320 Shall war destructive waste our native shore. The hostile league, which now appears so fast, Will break asunder, ere a day be past; And Wellesley, weaken’d in the dire affray, To Gallic brav’ry, falls an easy prey. Think of your ancient deeds! beneath your arms, Prussia, and Austria, fled with dire alarms; Dejected Spain, a Gallic Monarch own’d, And soft Italia mourn’d her Sire dethron’d; The winds of Fame your conq’ring eagles bore, 330 To climes ne’er fann’d by Victory’s wing before. These were your former deeds!--disgrace, or shame, Ne’er yet have soil’d your laurels, or your name. But now has envious Jealousy arose, To blight those laurels with unnumber’d foes; And yet they say, ’tis me!--’tis me alone! Your king, they wish to conquer, to dethrone! Yes!--were I dead,--proud Prussia’s ruthless hand Would hurl destruction on your fated land; They say, they ask not to decide your choice, 340 But me depos’d, to leave it to your voice. Yes!--were I dead,--their haughty pow’r would place Upon your throne th’ accursed Bourbon race. Say, will you have the idiot-line again, The mock of Europe, o’er your realms to reign? No! I can see in each indignant face, Your scorn, your hatred of the lawless race. A people’s voice, the voice of half a world, Rais’d me from whence that tyrant race was hurl’d; And since that time, my reign or ill, or well, 350 Let Gallia’s wealth--let Gallia’s conquest tell. But on the features of each ardent face, Your fire impetuous for the war I trace,-- Go then, my countrymen! no more restrain Your native ardour from the glorious plain-- Go with fresh laurels still to gild your name, To track the path of Honour and of Fame!-- Go, let your ancient conquests be surpast, By this brave deed, the mightiest and the last.”

XVI.

The hero ceas’d!--but loud applauding cries, 360 “Long live our Emperor!” rend the list’ning skies; From hill to hill, the deaf’ning shouts rebound, And Britain’s Genius trembled at the sound! E’en vengeful Prussia, thund’ring from afar, Dropt the red brand, and, wond’ring, ceas’d the war. Those notes so loudly, and so sternly rung, That ev’ry warring rank in mute attention hung! Now slowly winding o’er the devious path, The pride of France, direct their ardent wrath! Not one warm bosom, felt a pang of fear-- 370 No colder throbbing, check their bold career! So gladly stern, they bend their awful way, They seem’d to think their conquest sure that day.

Sudden a band of Brunswick’s sons appear, High in the air, their scathing swords they rear; And dare to extend the death-arousing hand, ’Gainst Europe’s dread--Napoléon’s favour’d band: Vain are their force!--the eye can scarce survey What heaps the Gauls, exulting, swept away! Again, in that dread hour, proud Victory spread 380 Her ample pinions o’er Napoléon’s head; In cold anxiety, he views from far, Screen’d by the vale, th’ achievements of the war.

Hark! what a peal re-echoes through the skies; What sudden clouds of lurid smoke arise? ’Tis the hoarse sound, so fatal to the brave, Red Death’s loud herald--patron of the grave! Lo! what a troop of Gallia’s flow’r, who late, Exulted wide, and scorn’d the rod of Fate, Stretch’d upon earth, depriv’d of life and breath, 390 Still sternly frowning, seem to spurn at Death! But as _one_ fell, _another_ quick supplied The vacant place, with fierce, undaunted pride;-- That pride which scorns all ties, that seem to part The idol Glory from the warrior’s heart! E’en if a brother, son, or father die, They view his slaughter with unalter’d eye; Each earthly passion from their souls had flow’n, Or rather seem’d absorb’d in one alone, 399 To grace their much-lov’d Sov’reign’s honour’d name, To live in glory, or to die in fame!

XVII.

A band of Britons, ’neath an hollow lay, Where Europe’s terror urg’d their rolling way, When, close behind, great Wellesley sudden threw His form rever’d, amid the warlike crew, And thus indignant cries, “Till British force Has backward drove the Gauls’ destructive course, E’en should the hostile sabre, rear’d on high, Destruction threaten, ne’er from hence I’ll fly.” Of self regardless, and unknown to fear, 410 Thus rush’d the hero--thus the foe’s career To stop he sought; while, round his form belov’d, His martial band, a matchless phalanx prov’d; Hid in the shelving depth, a kindling flame, Play’d round their hearts and lit the road to Fame. Mean time th’ imperial guard, with dauntless might, Still roll impetuous o’er the paths of fight,-- Unconscious where the fatal ambush lay, Within its verge, they bend their destin’d way. When, lo! a sudden voice amaz’d they hear, 420 “Up, guards, attack! your ready guns uprear.” Instant the Britons rose; the Gauls, in mute surprise, Thought they perceiv’d the sons of earth arise; But for surprise, or thought, not long had they, Ere the loud volley swept their troops away. Heaps upon heaps, that fire destructive made, Drove rank on rank, and back’d the whole brigade; And, whilst the wounded make attempt to rise, Another volley echoes through the skies.

XVIII.

Where now is Gallia’s boast?--far, far around, 430 Their mangled corpses welter on the ground; Save, where a few of that tremendous band, In stern amaze, still make their wonted stand. But see, the Britons, with exulting joy, Bare their bright sabres, eager to destroy; And, breathing vengeance, sword in hand they go, To end the conquest of the wilder’d foe; They, lost to reason, and the mind’s control, Sunk in despair each energy of soul: Some instinctively fly--some idly stand, 440 Yet drop the useless weapon from the hand. So fell, in one promiscuous pile of dead, Proud Gallia’s glory, and all Europe’s dread!

Napoléon view’d, with piercing pangs, afar, The adverse fortunes of the fatal war; E’en his bright talents, and gigantic soul, Which soar’d ’bove mortals, and beyond control, Sunk in that hour--in that eventful day, When his lov’d troops by fate were swept away; Fain would he rush his raging form to throw 450 Before the progress of his conq’ring foe; But Bertrand, Drouët, on the Monarch hung, Melted to tears, and bath’d the knees they clung-- “Whither, great Sire, oh, whither would’st thou fly? And dost thou think that thou alone would’st die? Upon _thy_ life, unnumber’d lives await-- On thee, depends thy native Gallia’s fate. Think of thy safety, and if not thy own, That of thy country, and thy infant son. What, though to-day opposing Fortune low’rs, 460 To-morrow’s sun may yet behold her ours!” With words like these, they strive to soothe the chief, Soften his anger, and allay his grief. Mov’d by their prayers, that glorious chief resign’d The dreadful purpose of his mighty mind. Backwards one long, one lingering look he cast Tow’rds the red place his band had breath’d their last, Then pass’d his hand across his madd’ning brow-- “I follow, Bertrand, where you lead me now.”

XIX.

Mean time fierce Blücher, with impetuous might, 470 Supports the war, and claims the equal fight; Hill’s conq’ring banners, midst the thickest war, Dripping red carnage, glitter’d from afar; His ruthless Prussians, dreadful Bulow roll’d, While Uxbridge shone the boldest of the bold; Exulting Fame, in shouting clamours calls, And Britain’s vengeance on Napoléon falls. But now the Gauls are mass’d in one vast throng, And Albion’s troops, collected, sweep along. On each vast squadron rush, each mighty band, 480 Now charge, collected, scymitar in hand. So from some rock the gushing torrents pour, Burst the weak banks, and overwhelm the shore: Their mighty streams in ev’ry quarter roll, And sweep away, whate’er their force control. What pen can tell each hero’s deathless name, Who spread destruction o’er the field of Fame. Let some sublimer bard’s illustrious verse, Their laurel’s number, and their deeds rehearse; 489 How Cooke, how Maitland, Packe, and Ferrier shone; How Ellis, Somerset, and Cairnes were known;-- How brave Fitzgerald, through the bloody fray, Spread ruin dark, and wond’ring wild dismay. With many a chief, whose ever-living name No voice can tell!--except the voice of Fame! Nor yet shalt thou, with well-earn’d laurels bright, Be sunk, O, C----t! in oblivious night, In that dread day thy crest refulgent shone, A youth in years, a vet’ran in renown; Sprung from a sire, who rear’d our nobler youth 500 To wisdom, virtue, learning, sense, and truth. Nor less thy brother’s fame, where Ganges pours His sacred waters through the Indian shores.

XX.

But, lo! what daring Frenchman’s desperate force Dare strive t’ oppose Britannia’s conq’ring course? Alone, scarce arm’d, from ev’ry limb, and pore, Dripping, a long and ghastly stream of crimson gore? ’Tis Shawe’s fierce murd’rer, by his sable crest, And ruby crosslet glitt’ring at his breast-- ’Tis dark Bernot!--the hero’s thirst of fame, 510 Led his _last_ act, to consecrate his name: See! in the thickest of the hostile band, Wave his dark plumes, and gleam his gory brand. Five chiefs he strikes--and rears to strike again-- Why drops his arm?--why useless on the plain Falls the red blade?--why sinks his plumy crest? The streams of life no longer warm his breast! By drop, by drop, from many a gashing wound, As he rode on, they trickled on the ground; Till the last streams had floated from his side, 520 And life and strength had issued on the tide.

XXI.

Hark! hark! what means that deep and frantic yell, That seems to burst the iron gates of hell? ’Tis Gallia’s Genius mourns her slaughter’d host! Her Empire, Sov’reign, and her Glory lost! Her car triumphant, now has stopp’d its course, And yields reluctant to Britannia’s force! Her darling hero makes his glorious stand, Her fav’rite son, the flow’r of Anglia’s band! Hark! hark!--again the sounds of victory rise, 530 In strains of triumph to the list’ning skies! ’Tis Britain conquers--Britain gives the blow-- ’Tis Britain glories o’er an humbled foe!

Now all is still!--save, where the breezes bear The groans of ling’ring nature to the ear. Peaceful at length, extended, side by side, Lay Britain’s boast, and humbled Gallia’s pride; While victory all her brightest honours shed, On Anglia’s warriors, and on Wellesley’s head. To that great chieftain is the glory due, 540 That first the haughty monarch learn’d to sue: Though great _his_ might, though deathless is _his_ name, Yet thou surpass’d him in the field of Fame. And long, as Albion’s laurel-mantled isle Shall o’er old Ocean’s conquer’d waters smile; And long, as through a Briton’s veins shall roll The mighty blood, that nerves a Briton’s soul; That blood shall boil! that heaving soul shall rise! And glory’s rapture bright the sparkling eyes! When the high name of Wellesley gives to view, 550 Thy deathless plains, imperial Waterloo! And the glad son of him, who fought and bled In that dire fray, shall rear his tow’ring head, And cry, in honest pride’s exulting swell,-- “’Twas there my father fought, my father fell!”

END OF CANTO II.

NOTES

ON CANTO I.

As so many excellent works have been published, giving a full and accurate account of the transactions of the battle, and as they are so recent in the memory of all who may honour this Poem with their perusal, I shall be very brief and select in my Notes.

Stanza III.

“_These hardy troops_ Napoléon’s brother _led_.”

Jerome Buonaparte.

* * * * *

“_For the first time in arms confronting stand._”

The Duke of Wellington had won twenty-seven battles over Napoléon’s generals, and was at last personally confronted with their master. Napoléon observed at Paris,--“that he was at last going to “measure swords with this Wellington, of whom he should certainly give a good account.”

Stanza VI.

“_Where stood the pride of Caledonia’s force._”

The Scotch Greys.

Stanza VII.

“_And Scotia, aided by an English band._”

The Bays.

Stanza XI.

“_No modern field could ever yet behold_ “_A fight so slaught’rous, and a war so bold._”

This was perhaps the severest engagement of cavalry ever fought on a modern field, and though the Greys eventually conquered by miracles of valour, they might well exclaim with Pyrrhus,--“Another such victory would ruin us.”

Stanza XII.

“_The gallant Byng._”--General Byng.

“_While Saltoun._”--Lord Saltoun.

Stanza XIII.

“_Th’ heroic Ponsonby._”--Sir William Ponsonby.

As Sir William Ponsonby was gallopping after his impetuous regiments, he had to cross a field lately ploughed, and of a very soft soil, and being badly mounted, his horse sunk in it. At that very moment he perceived a troop of lancers coming at full speed, and seeing all was over, took the picture of his wife from his bosom, and was giving the melancholy token to his aid-de-camp, to bear to his family, when the lancers coming up, killed both of them. To make the story more poetically affecting, I have taken the almost unpardonable licence of altering the facts.

Stanza XXI.

“_Melted to love before a brother’s name._”

Not so by the ties of love, but friendship.

Stanza XXIV.

“_Spite of his valour, struggles, and his strength._”

This line is borrowed from the following one in Rokeby:--

“Spite of his struggles and his strength.”

NOTES

ON CANTO II.

Stanza V.

“_As Gordon._”--Sir Alexander Gordon.

“_And glorious Canning._”--Lieut. Canning.

“_The brave Delancey._”--Sir W. Delancey.

Stanza XXI.

“_Moved by their prayers, the_ glorious chief.”

I have endeavoured throughout the whole of this Poem, to observe a strict impartiality between the British and French, and their commanders; not following the practice of some, who seem scarcely disposed to allow Buonaparte the character of a general; but these should consider, that the braver the troops, and the more experienced and skilful their leader, so much more is the glory of conquering them.

_Printed by J. Brettell, Rupert Street, Haymarket, London._

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FOOTNOTES:

[1] See The Lay of the Last Minstrel.

[2] See Roderick Dhu’s Sacrifice in The Lady of the Lake.

[3] See the Banquet at Holyrood Palace in Marmion, &c.

[4] Bulbul, is the Persian nightingale.

[5] Zel, is an Eastern instrument of martial music.

[6] Shich-Eidar, see Note the First.

[7] Azrail, is the Angel of Death.

[8] Wine is forbidden by the Mahometan religion.

[9] Sir R---- ----, an ancestor of Mrs. ----, was Lord Lieutenant of the county of ---- in the reign of Elizabeth, and commanded the forces of that county at the time of the Spanish Armada.

[10] Henry II.

[11] Castor and Pollux.

[12] Damon and Pythias.

[13] David, whose friendship with Jonathan is so beautifully described in the Scriptures.

[14] I am conscious that the metre of the following Translations is very different from that of the original; but it is my humble opinion, that it is utterly impossible to imitate the Version, and, at the same time, to preserve the spirit of the expression, and dignity of the idea; and it is really surprising that so many men of deep learning and judgment have attempted what was certain of failure: even Francis, who has done Horace more justice than any other translator, frequently, even in some of the sublimest odes, degenerates to a mere ballad singer. Were we, indeed, to make use of an irregular metre, it might, perhaps, be easy to translate _the beauty_, as well as _the meaning_; but, of all regular metres, I think our heroic is by far the best adapted for the grander odes.

[15] For this poem the Author must crave peculiar indulgence; it was written at the desire of a lady, who asked him for his opinion of our living poets in verse, and was completed in a _very short_ space of time, so that there are necessarily many faults in it: it would not, however, have been inserted, were it not for the particular wish of the lady for whom it was written.

[16] The gardens of Adonis.

[17] Æschylus, who may, I think, be called the Father of Tragedy, although Thespis was the first inventor of it.

Ignotum Tragicæ genus invenisse Camænæ, Dicitur, et plaustris vexisse poëmata Thespis, Quæ canerent agerentque peruncti fæcibus ora. Post hunc, personæ pallæque repertor honestæ Æschylus, et modicis instravit pulpita tignis, Et docuit magnumque loqui, nitique cothurno.”--_Hor._

[18] The nightingale is said to be particularly and faithfully attached to the rose tree.

[19] Ponsonby is generally called the chieftain, or leader, throughout the whole battle.

[20] Chrishna, is the Apollo of the Hindoo Mythology, and his smile is supposed to have been so bright as to have diffused an halo around his whole face.

[21]

“The _griding_ sword with discontinuous wound “Pass’d through him:----” _Milton_.

[22]

“Through flames of sulphur and a night of smoke.” _Addison’s Campaign_.

[23] Shawe.