Till the blood tinge his plumage, so the heat Of his impeded soul would through his bosom

eat.

XVI.

Self-exiled Harold wanders forth again,
With naught of hope left, but with less of
gloom;

The very knowledge that he lived in vain,
That all was over on this side the tomb,
Had made Despair a smilingness assume,
Which, though 'twere wild-as on the plunder'd
wreck

When mariners would madly meet their doom
With draughts intemperate on the sinking

Did yet inspire a cheer, which he forbore to check.

XVII.

Stop! for thy tread is on an Empire's dust!
An Earthquake's spoil is sepulchred below!
Is the spot mark'd 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 is this all the world has gain'd by thee, Thou first and last of fields! king-making Victory?

XVIII.

And Harold stands upon this place of skulls,
The grave of France, the deadly Waterloo !
How in an hour the power which gave annuls
Its gifts, transferring fame as fleeting too!
In "pride of place”1 here last the eagle flew,
Then tore with bloody talon the rent plain,
Pierced by the shaft of banded nations through;
Ambition's life and labors all were vain;
He wears the shatter'd links of the world's
broken chain.

XIX.

Fit retribution! Gaul may champ the bit, And foam in fetters, but is Earth more free? Did nations combat to make One submit; Or league to teach all kings true sovereignty? What! shall reviving thraldom again be The patch'd-up idol of enlighten'd days? Shall we, who struck the Lion down, shall we Pay the Wolf homage? proffering lowly gaze And servile knees to thrones? No; prove before ye praise !

1 "In pride of place" is a term of falconry, and means the highest pitch of flight. See Macbeth, etc.

XX.

If not, o'er one fall'n despot boast no more! In vain fair cheeks were furrow'd with hot tears For Europe's flowers long rooted up before The trampler of her vineyards; in vain years Of death, depopulation, bondage, fears, Have all been borne, and broken by the accord Of roused-up millions: all that most endears Glory, is when the myrtle wreathes a sword Such as Harmodius drew on Athens' tyrant lord.

XXI.

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 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!

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 !

XXIII.

Within a window'd 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 deem'd it

near,

His heart more truly knew that peal too well Which stretch'd his father on a bloody bier, And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell :

He rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell.

XXIV.

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 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 would guess

If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise!

XXV.

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 throng'd the citizens with terror dumb, Or whispering, with white lips - The foe!

They come! they come!"

66

XXVI.

And wild and high the "Camerons' gathering" rose,

The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills

Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon

foes: