The field of Waterloo

Stop ;—for thy tread is on an Empire’s dustAn 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 is this all the world hath 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 gather’d thenHer beauty and her chivalry; and brightThe lamps shone o’er fair women and brave men;A thousand hearts beat happily: and whenMusic arose with its voluptuous swell,Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake againAnd all went merry as a marriage-bell;—But hush! hark; a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!

Did you not hear it ?—No; ’twas but the windOr the car rattling o’er the stoney street;On with the dance! let joy be unconfined;No sleep till morn when youth and pleasure meetTo chase the glowing hours, with flying feet.But hark! that heavy sound breaks in once moreAs 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 hallSat Brunswick’s fated chieftain; he did hearThat 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 quellHe 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 agoBlushed at the praise of their own loveliness;And there was sudden partings, such as pressThe life from out young hearts, and choking sighsWhich ne'er might be repeated: who could guessIf evermore should meet those mutual eyesSince upon nights so sweet such awful morn should rise!

And there was mounting in hot haste: the steedThe 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 drumRoused 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!”

And wild and high the 'Cameron's gathering' roseThe war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hillsHave 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 fillsTheir mountain pipe, so fill the mountaineersWith the fierce native daring, which instilsThe stirring memory of a thousand years;And Evan's, Donald's fame, ring in each clansman's ears.

And Ardennes waves above them her green leavenDewy 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 as the grass,Which now beneath them, hut above shall growIn its next verdure; when this fiery massOf living valour, rolling on the foe,And burning with high hope, should moulder cold and low!

Lord Byron