Chapter 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.