Part 4

These lines were written before the intentions of government as to the hero’s funeral were known, or probably had been fixed; but I could not refrain from expressing my hope that the usual cold and penurious ceremonies should not disgrace an occasion so infinitely removed from, and above all precedent; or that the grief of the navy and the nation should be directed by chapter and section, and attested by twenty-five minute-guns, and _no more_! After all, the funeral did no great credit to our national taste; and I could wish, that the only memorial of it which remains, I mean the pitiful and trumpery car on which the body was carried, were returned from the Painted Hall at Greenwich, which it disgraces, to the repository of the undertaker who built it. Shabby and tasteless as it originally was, it is now much worse; for whatever was costly about it has been removed, (particularly the plumes,) and cheap _second hand_ finery substituted instead. To this almost incredible meanness is added that of shewing this wretched vamped-up vehicle to the visitors at Greenwich at _threepence_ each!!!

_IV.--SONG OF TRAFALGAR.--Page 79._

Line 15.--_The world’s great victor._

It is perhaps scarcely necessary to say, that I here allude to the famous visit of Alexander the Great to the tomb of Achilles.

Line 34.

_Such let it be, as o’er the bed_ _Of Nilus rears its lonely head._

The famous pillar, commonly called Pompey’s, but stated, with such ostentation of accuracy by all the French sçavans, to have been erected in honour of Septimius Severus. The ingenuity and industry, however, of two British officers, Capt. Duncan, of the royal engineers, and Lieut. De Sade, of the Queen’s German regiment, have recovered the inscription on this celebrated column, which attests that it was erected and dedicated to Diocletian by Pontius, prefect of Egypt.

Line 49.--_Thither shall youthful heroes climb._

This and some other passages, (in these songs of Trafalgar,) so much resemble some thoughts in the vigorous and beautiful verses entitled, ‘Ulm and Trafalgar,’ that it is necessary for me to say that the former were written and published in Ireland in Nov. 1805, and that it was not until a very considerable time after, that I had the pleasure of reading the latter, which were printed in London early, I believe, in 1806. I should also add, that I think it highly improbable that my little publication could have reached the author of ‘Ulm and Trafalgar,’ before his poem appeared: so that whatever coincidence there may be is purely accidental. I cannot but confess that I have thought much the better of my own lines since I have discovered them to have any resemblance to his, though I am aware that upon every body else a contrary effect will be produced, and that nothing can be more unfavourable to me than any thing like a comparison between us.

_DESPAIR OF SPAIN._

Line 11.

_---- can thy scope_ _Nothing but danger see?_

These verses were prompted by the indignation which I felt and feel at the _unbritish_ language of those who tremble, or affect to tremble, for the safety of England, who prophesy the subjugation of Spain, and trumpet forth the invincibility of Bonaparte. It may be weakness, it may be ignorance, which prompts such expressions;--it may be a sincere, though shameful conviction of the vanity of opposing France;--but, whatever be its source, such conduct appears to be a most potent auxiliary to the common enemy of Europe, and very little short of treason against the liberties of mankind. 1810.

Line 16.--_Saragossa._

The defence of this city, in 1809, by its gallant inhabitants, under their heroic leader, Don Josef Palafox, is one of the most splendid and extraordinary events of modern times; and if any one of my readers shall not have seen the narrative of the siege published by Mr. Vaughan, I cannot (though the subject is, in some degree, gone by) but recommend it to his perusal, as a valuable record ‘of an event which teaches so forcibly the resources of patriotism and courage;’ and of an example which ought not to be lost to the world.

Line 17.--_Heroes and saints._

‘One character which developed itself during the siege of Zaragoza, must not be overlooked in this narrative. In every part of the town where the danger was most imminent, and the French the most numerous, was Padre St. Jago Sass, curate of a parish of Zaragoza. As General Palafox made his rounds through the city, he often beheld Sass alternately playing the part of a priest and a soldier; sometimes administering the sacrament to the dying, and at others fighting in the most determined manner against the enemies of his country: from his energy of character and uncommon bravery, the Commander in Chief reposed the utmost confidence in him during the siege; wherever any thing difficult or hazardous was to be done, Sass was selected for its execution; and the introduction of a supply of powder, so essentially necessary to the defence of the town, was effected in the most complete manner by this clergyman, at the head of forty of the bravest men in Zaragoza. He was found so serviceable in inspiring the people with religious sentiments, and in leading them on to danger, that the general has placed him in a situation where both his piety and courage may continue to be as useful as before; and he is now both captain in the army, and chaplain to the Commander in Chief.’

_Vaughan’s Narrative._

THE END.

T. DAVISON, Lombard-street, Whitefriars, London.

THE

FIELD OF WATERLOO;

A POEM.

THE

FIELD

OF

WATERLOO;

A POEM.

BY WALTER SCOTT, ESQ.

_Though Valois braved young Edward’s gentle hand,_ _And Albret rush’d on Henry’s way-worn band,_ _With Europe’s chosen sons in arms renown’d,_ _Yet not on Vere’s bold archers long they look’d,_ _Nor Audley’s squires nor Mowbray’s yeomen brook’d,--_ _They saw their standard fall, and left their monarch bound._ AKENSIDE.

SECOND EDITION.

EDINBURGH:

_Printed by James Ballantyne & Co._

FOR ARCHIBALD CONSTABLE AND CO. EDINBURGH; AND LONGMAN, HURST, REES, ORME, AND BROWN, AND JOHN MURRAY, LONDON.

1815.

ADVERTISEMENT.

_It may be some apology for the imperfections of this Poem, that it was composed hastily, during a short tour upon the continent, when the Author’s labours were liable to frequent interruption. But its best vindication is, that it was written for the purpose of assisting the Waterloo Subscription._

THE

FIELD OF WATERLOO.

Fair Brussels, thou art far behind, Though, lingering on the morning wind, We yet may hear the hour Peal’d over orchard and canal, With voice prolong’d and measured fall, From proud Saint Michael’s tower. Thy wood, dark Soignies, holds us now, Where the tall beeches’ glossy bough For many a league around, With birch and darksome oak between, Spreads deep and far a pathless screen, Of tangled forest ground. Stems planted close by stems defy The adventurous foot--the curious eye For access seeks in vain; And the brown tapestry of leaves, Strew’d on the blighted ground, receives Nor sun, nor air, nor rain. No opening glade dawns on our way, No streamlet, glancing to the ray, Our woodland path has cross’d; And the straight causeway which we tread, Prolongs a line of dull arcade, Unvarying through the unvaried shade Until in distance lost.

II.

A brighter, livelier scene succeeds; In groupes the scattering wood recedes, Hedge-rows, and huts, and sunny meads, And corn-fields glance between; The peasant, at his labour blithe, Plies the hook’d staff and shorten’d scythe:-- But when these ears were green, Placed close within destruction’s scope, Full little was that rustic’s hope Their ripening to have seen! And, lo, a hamlet and its fane:-- Let not the gazer with disdain Their architecture view; For yonder rude ungraceful shrine, And disproportion’d spire, are thine, Immortal WATERLOO!

III.

Fear not the heat, though full and high The sun has scorch’d the autumn sky, And scarce a forest straggler now To shade us spreads a greenwood bough These fields have seen a hotter day Than e’er was fired by sunny ray. Yet one mile on--yon shatter’d hedge Crests the soft hill whose long smooth ridge Looks on the field below, And sinks so gently on the dale, That not the folds of Beauty’s veil In easier curves can flow. Brief space from thence, the ground again Ascending slowly from the plain, Forms an opposing screen, Which, with its crest of upland ground, Shuts the horizon all around. The soften’d vale between Slopes smooth and fair for courser’s tread; Not the most timid maid need dread To give her snow-white palfrey head On that wide stubble-ground; Nor wood, nor tree, nor bush are there, Her course to intercept or scare, Nor fosse nor fence are found, Save where, from out her shatter’d bowers, Rise Hougoumont’s dismantled towers.

IV.

Now, see’st thou aught in this lone scene Can tell of that which late hath been?-- A stranger might reply, “The bare extent of stubble-plain Seems lately lighten’d of its grain; And yonder sable tracks remain Marks of the peasant’s ponderous wain, When harvest-home was nigh. On these broad spots of trampled ground, Perchance the rustics danced such round As Teniers loved to draw; And where the earth seems scorch’d by flame, To dress the homely feast they came, And toil’d the kerchief’d village dame Around her fire of straw.”--

V.

So deem’st thou--so each mortal deems, Of that which is from that which seems:-- But other harvest here Than that which peasant’s scythe demands, Was gather’d in by sterner hands, With bayonet, blade, and spear. No vulgar crop was theirs to reap, No stinted harvest thin and cheap! Heroes before each fatal sweep Fell thick as ripen’d grain; And ere the darkening of the day, Piled high as autumn shocks, there lay The ghastly harvest of the fray, The corpses of the slain.

VI.

Aye, look again--that line so black And trampled, marks the bivouack, Yon deep-graved ruts the artillery’s track, So often lost and won And close beside, the harden’d mud Still shows where, fetlock-deep in blood, The fierce dragoon, through battle’s flood, Dash’d the hot war-horse on. These spots of excavation tell The ravage of the bursting shell-- And feel’st thou not the tainted steam, That reeks against the sultry beam, From yonder trenched mound? The pestilential fumes declare That Carnage has replenish’d there Her garner-house profound.

VII.

Far other harvest-home and feast, Than claims the boor from scythe released, On these scorch’d fields were known! Death hover’d o’er the maddening rout, And, in the thrilling battle-shout, Sent for the bloody banquet out A summons of his own. Through rolling smoke the Demon’s eye Could well each destined guest espy, Well could his ear in ecstacy Distinguish every tone That fill’d the chorus of the fray-- From cannon-roar and trumpet-bray, From charging squadrons’ wild hurra, From the wild clang that mark’d their way,-- Down to the dying groan, And the last sob of life’s decay When breath was all but flown.

VIII.

Feast on, stern foe of mortal life, Feast on!--but think not that a strife, With such promiscuous carnage rife, Protracted space may last; The deadly tug of war at length Must limits find in human strength, And cease when these are pass’d. Vain hope!--that morn’s o’erclouded sun Heard the wild shout of fight begun Ere he attain’d his height, And through the war-smoke volumed high, Still peals that unremitted cry, Though now he stoops to night. For ten long hours of doubt and dread, Fresh succours from the extended head Of either hill the contest fed; Still down the slope they drew, The charge of columns paused not, Nor ceased the storm of shell and shot; For all that war could do Of skill and force was proved that day, And turn’d not yet the doubtful fray On bloody Waterloo.

IX.

Pale Brussels! then what thoughts were thine, When ceaseless from the distant line Continued thunders came! Each burgher held his breath, to hear These forerunners of havock near, Of rapine and of flame. What ghastly sights were thine to meet, When, rolling through thy stately street, The wounded shew’d their mangled plight In token of the unfinish’d fight, And from each anguish-laden wain The blood-drops laid thy dust like rain! How often in the distant drum Heard’st thou the fell Invader come, While Ruin, shouting to his band, Shook high her torch and gory brand!-- Cheer thee, fair City! From yon stand, Impatient, still his outstretch’d hand Points to his prey in vain, While maddening in his eager mood, And all unwont to be withstood, He fires the fight again.

X.

“On! On!” was still his stern exclaim; “Confront the battery’s jaws of flame! “Rush on the levell’d gun! “My steel-clad cuirassiers, advance! “Each Hulan forward with his lance, “My Guard--my chosen--charge for France, “France and Napoleon!” Loud answer’d their acclaiming shout, Greeting the mandate which sent out Their bravest and their best to dare The fate their leader shunn’d to share. But He, his country’s sword and shield, Still in the battle-front reveal’d, Where danger fiercest swept the field, Came like a beam of light, In action prompt, in sentence brief-- “Soldiers, stand firm,” exclaim’d the Chief, “England shall tell the fight!”

XI.

On came the whirlwind--like the last But fiercest sweep of tempest blast-- On came the whirlwind--steel-gleams broke Like lightning through the rolling smoke, The war was waked anew, Three hundred cannon-mouths roar’d loud, And from their throats, with flash and cloud, Their showers of iron threw. Beneath their fire, in full career, Rush’d on the ponderous cuirassier, The lancer couch’d his ruthless spear, And hurrying as to havock near, The Cohorts’ eagles flew. In one dark torrent broad and strong, The advancing onset roll’d along, Forth harbinger’d by fierce acclaim, That, from the shroud of smoke and flame, Peal’d wildly the imperial name.

XII.

But on the British heart were lost The terrors of the charging host; For not an eye the storm that view’d Changed its proud glance of fortitude, Nor was one forward footstep staid, As dropp’d the dying and the dead. Fast as their ranks the thunders tear, Fast they renew’d each serried square; And on the wounded and the slain Closed their diminish’d files again, Till from their line scarce spears’ lengths three, Emerging from the smoke they see Helmet and plume and panoply,-- Then waked their fire at once! Each musketeer’s revolving knell, As fast, as regularly fell, As when they practise to display Their discipline on festal day. Then down went helm and lance, Down were the eagle banners sent, Down reeling steeds and riders went, Corslets were pierced, and pennons rent; And to augment the fray, Wheel’d full against their staggering flanks, The English horsemen’s foaming ranks Forced their resistless way. Then to the musket-knell succeeds The clash of swords--the neigh of steeds-- As plies the smith his clanging trade, Against the cuirass rang the blade; And while amid their close array The well-served cannon rent their way, And while amid their scatter’d band Raged the fierce rider’s bloody brand, Recoil’d in common rout and fear, Lancer and guard and cuirassier, Horsemen and foot,--a mingled host, Their leaders fallen, their standards lost.

XIII.

Then, WELLINGTON! thy piercing eye This crisis caught of destiny-- The British host had stood That morn ’gainst charge of sword and lance As their own ocean-rocks hold stance, But when thy voice had said, “Advance!” They were their ocean’s flood.-- O Thou, whose inauspicious aim Hath wrought thy host this hour of shame, Think’st thou thy broken bands will bide The terrors of yon rushing tide? Or will thy Chosen brook to feel The British shock of levell’d steel? Or dost thou turn thine eye Where coming squadrons gleam afar, And fresher thunders wake the war, And other standards fly?-- Think not that in yon columns, file Thy conquering troops from distant Dyle-- Is Blucher yet unknown? Or dwells not in thy memory still, (Heard frequent in thine hour of ill) What notes of hate and vengeance thrill In Prussia’s trumpet tone?-- What yet remains?--shall it be thine To head the reliques of thy line In one dread effort more?-- The Roman lore thy leisure loved, And thou can’st tell what fortune proved That Chieftain, who, of yore, Ambition’s dizzy paths essay’d, And with the gladiators’ aid For empire enterprized-- He stood the cast his rashness play’d, Left not the victims he had made, Dug his red grave with his own blade, And on the field he lost was laid, Abhorr’d--but not despised.

XIV.

But if revolves thy fainter thought On safety--howsoever bought, Then turn thy fearful rein and ride, Though twice ten thousand men have died On this eventful day, To gild the military fame Which thou, for life, in traffic tame Wilt barter thus away. Shall future ages tell this tale Of inconsistence faint and frail? And art thou He of Lodi’s bridge, Marengo’s field, and Wagram’s ridge! Or is thy soul like mountain-tide, That, swell’d by winter storm and shower, Rolls down in turbulence of power A torrent fierce and wide; ’Reft of these aids, a rill obscure, Shrinking unnoticed, mean, and poor, Whose channel shows display’d The wrecks of its impetuous course, But not one symptom of the force By which these wrecks were made!

XV.

Spur on thy way!--since now thine ear Has brook’d thy veterans’ wish to hear, Who, as thy flight they eyed, Exclaimed,--while tears of anguish came, Wrung forth by pride and rage and shame,-- “Oh that he had but died!” But yet, to sum this hour of ill, Look, ere thou leav’st the fatal hill, Back on yon broken ranks-- Upon whose wild confusion gleams The moon, as on the troubled streams When rivers break their banks, And, to the ruin’d peasant’s eye, Objects half seen roll swiftly by, Down the dread current hurl’d-- So mingle banner, wain, and gun, Where the tumultuous flight rolls on Of warriors, who, when morn begun, Defied a banded world.

XVI.

List--frequent to the hurrying rout, The stern pursuers’ vengeful shout Tells, that upon their broken rear Rages the Prussian’s bloody spear. So fell a shriek was none, When Beresina’s icy flood Redden’d and thaw’d with flame and blood, And, pressing on thy desperate way, Raised oft and long their wild hurra, The children of the Don. Thine ear no yell of horror cleft So ominous, when, all bereft Of aid, the valiant Polack left-- Aye, left by thee--found soldier’s grave In Leipsic’s corpse-encumber’d wave. Fate, in these various perils past, Reserved thee still some future cast:-- On the dread die thou now hast thrown, Hangs not a single field alone, Nor one campaign--thy martial fame, Thy empire, dynasty, and name, Have felt the final stroke; And now, o’er thy devoted head The last stern vial’s wrath is shed, The last dread seal is broke.

XVII.

Since live thou wilt--refuse not now Before these demagogues to bow, Late objects of thy scorn and hate, Who shall thy once imperial fate Make wordy theme of vain debate.-- Or shall we say, thou stoop’st less low In seeking refuge from the foe, Against whose heart, in prosperous life, Thine hand hath ever held the knife?-- Such homage hath been paid By Roman and by Grecian voice, And there were honour in the choice, If it were freely made. Then safely come--in one so low,-- So lost,--we cannot own a foe; Though dear experience bid us end, In thee we ne’er can hail a friend.-- Come, howsoe’er--but do not hide Close in thy heart that germ of pride, Erewhile by gifted bard espied, That “yet imperial hope;” Think not that for a fresh rebound, To raise ambition from the ground, We yield thee means or scope. In safety come--but ne’er again Hold type of independent reign; No islet calls thee lord, We leave thee no confederate band, No symbol of thy lost command, To be a dagger in the hand From which we wrench’d the sword.

XVIII.

Yet, even in yon sequester’d spot, May worthier conquest be thy lot Than yet thy life has known; Conquest, unbought by blood or harm, That needs nor foreign aid nor arm, A triumph all thine own. Such waits thee when thou shalt controul Those passions wild, that stubborn soul, That marr’d thy prosperous scene:-- Hear this--from no unmoved heart, Which sighs, comparing what THOU ART With what thou MIGHT’ST HAVE BEEN!

XIX.

Thou, too, whose deeds of fame renew’d Bankrupt a nation’s gratitude, To thine own noble heart must owe More than the meed she can bestow. For not a people’s just acclaim, Not the full hail of Europe’s fame, Thy prince’s smiles, thy state’s decree, The ducal rank, the garter’d knee, Not these such pure delight afford As that, when, hanging up thy sword, Well may’st thou think, “This honest steel Was ever drawn for public weal; And, such was rightful Heaven’s decree, Ne’er sheathed unless with victory!”

XX.

Look forth, once more, with soften’d heart, Ere from the field of fame we part; Triumph and Sorrow border near, And joy oft melts into a tear. Alas! what links of love that morn Has War’s rude hand asunder torn! For ne’er was field so sternly fought, And ne’er was conquest dearer bought. Here piled in common slaughter sleep Those whom affection long shall weep; Here rests the sire, that ne’er shall strain His orphans to his heart again; The son, whom, on his native shore, The parent’s voice shall bless no more; The bridegroom, who has hardly press’d His blushing consort to his breast; The husband, whom through many a year Long love and mutual faith endear. Thou can’st not name one tender tie But here dissolved its reliques lie! O when thou see’st some mourner’s veil, Shroud her thin form and visage pale, Or mark’st the Matron’s bursting tears Stream when the stricken drum she hears; Or see’st how manlier grief, suppress’d, Is labouring in a father’s breast,-- With no enquiry vain pursue The cause, but think on Waterloo!

XXI.