Page:Poems By Chauncy Hare Townshend.djvu/364
This page has been proofread, but needs to be validated.
340
WATERLOO.
While loftier souls th' inclement blast defy,
And revel in the tumult of the sky.
With deeper thoughts the Highland Mountaineer
Lists the rude sounds familiar to his ear.
Before his view his native rocks arise,
His cot half lost amid the misty skies—
The cheerful fire of peat;—he may not brook
On the fond scene to dwell with lingering look:
For there are some—Oh, dearer ev'n than life!—
Who may weep vainly o'er to-morrow's strife.
Far other thoughts the lively Gaul possess,
Flush'd with gay hope, and drunken with success,
Too light to heed the mingling wind and rain,
Boastful he fights his conquests o'er again,
And gilds with Ligny's fame the darker hour,
When quail'd at Quatre Bras his vaunted pow'r.
And does the mem'ry of that well-fought field
No thrilling pulse to Britain's warriors yield?
Feebly, alas, the joys of triumph swell,
Too dearly bought, where Brunswick—Cameron—fell:
Nor can they now the sinking breast elate,
While anxious lips enquire of Prussia's fate,
And comrades whisper, as with busy care
Their arms they burnish, or the steed prepare.
Dread in her vagueness Rumour stalks around,
And draws wild omens from each dubious sound.
And revel in the tumult of the sky.
With deeper thoughts the Highland Mountaineer
Lists the rude sounds familiar to his ear.
Before his view his native rocks arise,
His cot half lost amid the misty skies—
The cheerful fire of peat;—he may not brook
On the fond scene to dwell with lingering look:
For there are some—Oh, dearer ev'n than life!—
Who may weep vainly o'er to-morrow's strife.
Far other thoughts the lively Gaul possess,
Flush'd with gay hope, and drunken with success,
Too light to heed the mingling wind and rain,
Boastful he fights his conquests o'er again,
And gilds with Ligny's fame the darker hour,
When quail'd at Quatre Bras his vaunted pow'r.
And does the mem'ry of that well-fought field
No thrilling pulse to Britain's warriors yield?
Feebly, alas, the joys of triumph swell,
Too dearly bought, where Brunswick—Cameron—fell:
Nor can they now the sinking breast elate,
While anxious lips enquire of Prussia's fate,
And comrades whisper, as with busy care
Their arms they burnish, or the steed prepare.
Dread in her vagueness Rumour stalks around,
And draws wild omens from each dubious sound.