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Lord Byron (1788–1824).  Poetry of Byron.  1881.
 
II. Descriptive and Narrative
Waterloo
 
(Childe Harold, Canto iii. Stanzas 21–30.)

  THERE was a sound of revelry by night,
  And Belgium’s capital had gather’d then
  Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and bright
  The lamps shone o’er fair women and brave men;
  A thousand hearts beat happily; and when        5
  Music arose with its voluptuous swell,
  Soft eyes look’d love to eyes which spake again,
  And all went merry as a marriage-bell;
But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!
 
  Did ye not hear it?—No; ’twas but the wind,        10
  Or the car rattling o’er the stony street;
  On with the dance! let joy be unconfined;
  No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet
  To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet—
  But, hark!—that heavy sound breaks in once more,        15
  As if the clouds its echo would repeat;
  And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before!
Arm! Arm! it is—it is—the cannon’s opening roar!
 
  Within a window’d niche of that high hall
  Sate Brunswick’s fated chieftain; he did hear        20
  That sound the first amidst the festival,
  And caught its tone with Death’s prophetic ear;
  And when they smiled because he deem’d it near,
  His heart more truly knew that peal too well
  Which stretch’d his father on a bloody bier,        25
  And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell:
He rush’d into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell.
 
  Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,
  And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress,
  And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago        30
  Blush’d at the praise of their own loveliness;
  And there were sudden partings, such as press
  The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs
  Which ne’er might be repeated; who could guess
  If ever more should meet those mutual eyes,        35
Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise!
 
  And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed,
  The mustering squadron, and the clattering car,
  Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,
  And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;        40
  And the deep thunder peal on peal afar;
  And near, the beat of the alarming drum
  Roused up the soldier ere the morning star;
  While throng’d the citizens with terror dumb,
Or whispering, with white lips—“The foe! They come! they come!”        45
 
  And wild and high the “Cameron’s gathering” rose!
  The war note of Lochiel, which Albyn’s hills
  Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes:—
  How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills,
  Savage and shrill! But with the breath which fills        50
  Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers
  With the fierce native daring which instils
  The stirring memory of a thousand years,
And Evan’s, Donald’s fame rings in each clansman’s ears!
 
  And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves,        55
  Dewy with nature’s tear-drops, as they pass,
  Grieving, if aught inanimate e’er grieves,
  Over the unreturning brave,—alas!
  Ere evening to be trodden like the grass
  Which now beneath them, but above shall grow        60
  In its next verdure, when this fiery mass
  Of living valour, rolling on the foe
And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low.
 
  Last noon beheld them full of lusty life,
  Last eve in Beauty’s circle proudly gay,        65
  The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife,
  The morn the marshalling in arms,—the day
  Battle’s magnificently-stern array!
  The thunder-clouds close o’er it, which when rent
  The earth is cover’d thick with other clay,        70
  Which her own clay shall cover, heap’d and pent,
Rider and horse,—friend, foe,—in one red burial blent!
 
  Their praise is hymn’d by loftier harps than mine;
  Yet one I would select from that proud throng,
  Partly because they blend me with his line,        75
  And partly that I did his sire some wrong,
  And partly that bright names will hallow song;
  And his was of the bravest, and when shower’d
  The death-bolts deadliest the thinn’d files along,
  Even where the thickest of war’s tempest lower’d,        80
They reach’d no nobler breast than thine, young, gallant Howard!
 
  There have been tears and breaking hearts for thee,
  And mine were nothing, had I such to give;
  But when I stood beneath the fresh green tree,
  Which living waves where thou didst cease to live,        85
  And saw around me the wide field revive
  With fruits and fertile promise, and the Spring
  Come forth her work of gladness to contrive,
  With all her reckless birds upon the wing,
I turn’d from all she brought to those she could not bring.        90
 
 
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