Page:Poems By Chauncy Hare Townshend.djvu/363
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WATERLOO.
339
Wide o'er the landscape casts the angry hue,
Gleams on the village fane of Waterloo;
Then, deeply red, as if suffus'd with blood,
Sinks into gloom behind dark Soignies' wood.
A deadly stillness, which is not repose,
O'er earth and air its dull stagnation throws.
Is it that Nature thus suspends her breath,
List'ning afar the rushing wings of Death?
On the low brow of yonder gentle hill,
Where the corn rustles, tho' the wind is still,
No shepherds watch, no peasants braid the dance,
'Tis England rank'd against the might of France.
Her mustering myriads crown the opposing height,
While dark between them drops the veil of Night.
Short separation! They at morn shall meet.
With such good morrow as a foe may greet.
Oh! 'till that hour what expectation reigns,
Drinks the quick breath, and thrills the fever'd veins;
Dread the fierce onset, dread the stern defence,
But what can match the sickness of suspense?
To act, to suffer, may be nobly great,
But Nature's mightiest effort is, to wait.
Did it not seem relief, when, rous'd at length,
Burst the full tempest in its gather'd strength?
Did not the body's added hardships win
The mind from turning on itself within?
Gleams on the village fane of Waterloo;
Then, deeply red, as if suffus'd with blood,
Sinks into gloom behind dark Soignies' wood.
A deadly stillness, which is not repose,
O'er earth and air its dull stagnation throws.
Is it that Nature thus suspends her breath,
List'ning afar the rushing wings of Death?
On the low brow of yonder gentle hill,
Where the corn rustles, tho' the wind is still,
No shepherds watch, no peasants braid the dance,
'Tis England rank'd against the might of France.
Her mustering myriads crown the opposing height,
While dark between them drops the veil of Night.
Short separation! They at morn shall meet.
With such good morrow as a foe may greet.
Oh! 'till that hour what expectation reigns,
Drinks the quick breath, and thrills the fever'd veins;
Dread the fierce onset, dread the stern defence,
But what can match the sickness of suspense?
To act, to suffer, may be nobly great,
But Nature's mightiest effort is, to wait.
Did it not seem relief, when, rous'd at length,
Burst the full tempest in its gather'd strength?
Did not the body's added hardships win
The mind from turning on itself within?