Than that which peasant's scythe demands Was gathered 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 ripened 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.

And trampled marks the bivouac,

Yon deep-graved ruts the artillery's track,

So often lost and won;

And close beside the hardened mud

Still shows where, fetlock-deep in blood,

The fierce dragoon through battle's flood Dashed 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 trenchèd mound?

The pestilential fumes declare

That Carnage has replenished there
Her garner-house profound.

VII

Far other harvest-home and feast

Than claims the boor from scythe released
On these scorched fields were known!
Death hovered 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 ecstasy

Distinguish every tone

That filled the chorus of the fray

From cannon-roar and trumpet-bray,

From charging squadrons' wild hurra,
From the wild clang that marked 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 past.

Vain hope! that morn's o'erclouded sun

Heard the wild shout of fight begun

Ere he attained 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 pausèd not,
Nor ceased the storm of shell and shot;

For all that war could do

Of skill and force was proved that day,
And turned not yet the doubtful fray

On bloody Waterloo.

IX

Pale Brussels! then what thoughts were thine,1 When ceaseless from the distant line

Continued thunders came!

1. See Note 80.

Each burgher held his breath to hear
These forerunners of havoc near,

Of rapine and of flame

What ghastly sights were thine to meet, When, rolling through thy stately street,

The wounded showed their mangled plight In token of the unfinished 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 outstretched 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;1
'Confront the battery's jaws of flame!
Rush on the levelled gun!

My steel-clad cuirassiers, advance!
Each Hulan forward with his lance,

1 See Note 81.

France and Napoleon!'

Loud answered their acclaiming shout,
Greeting the mandate which sent out
Their bravest and their best to dare
The fate their leader shunned to share,1

But HE, his country's sword and shield, i

Still in the battle-front revealed

Where danger fiercest swept the field,
Came like a beam of light,

In action prompt, in sentence brief -
'Soldiers, stand firm!' exclaimed the chief,
'England shall tell the fight!'2

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 roared loud, And from their throats with flash and cloud

Their showers of iron threw. Beneath their fire in full career Rushed on the ponderous cuirassier, The lancer couched his ruthless spear,

1 See Note 82.

• See Note 83.