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The Battle of Waterloo.

TOP! for thy tread is on an empire's dust; An earthquake's spoil is sepulchred below; Is the spot marked with no colossal bust?

Nor column trophied for triumphal show?
None; but the moral's truth tells simpler so.
As the ground was before, thus let it be.

How that red rain hath made the harvest grow
And this all the world has gained by thee,
Thou first and last of fields, king making victory!

There was a sound of revelry by night,
And Belgium's capital had gathered there
Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright

The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men;
A thousand hearts beat happily; and when
Music arose with its voluptuous swell,

Soft eyes looked 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,
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,
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 widened niche of that high hall
Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain; he did hear
That sound the first amidst the festival,
And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear:

And when they smiled because he deemed it near, His heart more truly knew that peal too well Which stretched his father on a bloody bier, And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell: He rushed 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 Blushed 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 would guess If evermore should meet those mutual eyes, 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;
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 thronged the citizens with terror dumb,
Or whispering with white lips, "The foe! they come!
they come!"

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
Their mountain pipe, so fill the mountaineers

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A mile or so away,

On a little mound, Napoleon

Stood on our storming day;

With neck out-thrust, you fancy how,

Legs wide, arms locked behind, As if to balance the prone brow Oppressive with its mind.

Just as perhaps he mused, "My plans That soar, to earth may fall,

Let once my army leader Lannes

Waver at yonder wall."

Out 'twixt the battery smokes there flew
A rider, bound on bound
Full galloping; nor bridle drew

Until he reached the mound.

Then off there flung in smiling joy,
And held himself erect

By just his horse's mane, a boy!
You hardly could suspect

(So tight he kept his lips compressed, Scarce any blood came through),

You looked twice ere you saw his breast Was all but shot in two.

"Well," cried he, "Emperor, by God's grace

We've got you Ratisbon!

The marshal's in the market place,

And you'll be there anon

To see your flag-bird flap his vans

Where I, to heart's desire,

Perched him!" The chief 's eye flashed; his plans

Soared up again like fire.

The chief's eye flashed; but presently
Softened itself, as sheathes

A film the mother eagle's eye

When her bruised eaglet breathes:

"You're wounded!" "Nay," his soldier's pride Touched to the quick, he said:

"I'm killed, sire!" And, his chief beside, Smiling, the boy fell dead.

-Robert Browning.

Soldier, Rest! Thy Warfare O'er.

[From "The Lady of the Lake."]

o'er,

SOLDIER, rest! thy warfare not breaking;

Dream of battled fields no more,

Days of danger, nights of waking.

In our isle's enchanted hall,

Hands unseen thy couch are strewing,

Fairy strains of music fall,

Every sense in slumber dewing.

Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,
Dream of fighting fields no more;

Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking,

Morn of toil, nor night of waking.

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These rocks may have life,

Lay me down in this hollow,
We are out of the strife.

By heavens! the foeman may track me in blood,
For this hole in my breast is outpouring a flood.

No! no surgeon for me; he can give me no aid;
The surgeon I want is pickaxe and spade.
What, Morris, a tear? Why, shame on ye, man!
I thought you a hero; but since you began
To whimper and cry like a girl in her teens,
By George! I don't know what the devil it means!

Well! well! I am rough; 'tis a very rough school,
This life of a trooper-but yet I'm no fool!
I know a brave man, and a friend from a foe;
And, boys, that you love me I certainly know;

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God help the poor wretches that fell in that fight;
No time was there given for prayer or for flight;
They fell by the score, in the crash, hand to hand,
And they mingled their blood with the sloughing and
sand.

Huzza!

Great heavens! this bullet hole gapes like a grave;

A curse on the aim of the traitorous knave!

Is there never a one of ye knows how to pray, Or speak for a man as his life ebbs away?

Pray!

Pray!

Our Father! Our Father! . . why don't ye proceed? Can't you see I am dying? Great God, how I bleed! Ebbing away!

Ebbing away!

The light of the day Is turning to gray.

Pray!

Pray!

Our Father in Heaven-boys, tell me the rest,
While I stanch the hot blood from this hole in my

breast.

There's something about the forgiveness of sinPut that in! put that in !—and then

I'll follow your words, and say an amen.

Here, Morris, old fellow, get hold of my hand; And Wilson, my comrade-O, wasn't it grand When they came down the hill like a thunder-charged cloud! [head;

Where's Wilson, my comrade?-Here, stoop down your Can't you say a short prayer for the dying and dead?

"Christ God, who died for sinners all,

Hear thou this suppliant wanderer's cry; Let not e'en this poor sparrow fall Unheeded by thy gracious eye. "Throw wide thy gates to let him in, And take him, pleading, to thine arms; Forgive, O Lord! his life-long sin,

And quiet all his fierce alarms."

God bless you, my comrade, for saying that hymn;
It is light to my path when my eye has grown dim.
I am dying-bend down till I touch you once more—
Don't forget me, old fellow-God prosper this war!
Confusion to traitors!-keep hold of my hand-
And float the OLD FLAG o'er a prosperous land!
-John W. Watson.

H

Searching for the Slain.

WOLD the lantern aside, and shudder not so; There's more blood to see than this stain on the snow;

There are pools of it, lakes of it, just over there,

And fixed faces all streaked, and crimson-soaked hair.
Did you think, when we came, you and I, out to-night
To search for our dead, you would be a fair sight?

You're his wife; you love him-yon think so; and I
Am only his mother; my boy shall not lie
In a ditch with the rest, while my arms can bear
His form to a grave that mine own may soon share
So, if your strength fails, best go sit by the hearth,
While his mother alone seeks his bed on the earth.

You will go then no faintings! Give me the light,
And follow my footsteps-my heart will lead right,
Ah, God! what is here? a great heap of slain,
All mangled and gory!--what horrible pain
These beings have died in! Dear mothers, ye weep,
Ye weep, oh, ye weep o'er this terrible sleep'

More! more! Ah! I thought I could never more know

Grief, horror, or pity, for aught here below,

Since I stood in the porch and heard his chief tell
How brave was my son, how he gallantly fell.
Did they think I cared then to see officers stand
Before my great sorrow, each hat in each hand?

Why, girl, do you feel neither reverence nor fright,
That your red hands turn over toward this dim light
These dead men that stare so? Ah, if you had kept
Your senses this morning ere his comrades had left,
You had heard that his place was worst of them all-
Not 'mid the stragglers-where he fought he would fall.
There's the moon through the clouds: O Christ what
a scene !

Dost Thou from Thy heavens o'er such visions lean, And still call this cursed world a footstool of Thine?

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