Page:Poems By Chauncy Hare Townshend.djvu/365
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WATERLOO.
341
Yet Albion's offspring, firm in joy, or ill,
Ev'n in their sadness are undaunted still.
'Tis Duty nerves beneath Misfortune's rod,
Trust in their chief—yet less in him than God.
Slow move the hours; the tardy morn still shrouds.
Her feeble radiance in a night of clouds.
Dim thro' the vapour, and the driving storm,
On either height stalks many a warlike form.
And who is he amid the Gallic host,
With that fierce gesture of insulting boast?
Who, as to seize the prey in fancy won,
Clench'd his rais'd hand? It is Napoleon.
Ha! dost thou hold them in thy savage grasp?
That eager hand on empty air may clasp!
Well hast thou laid each deep dissembled plan,—
But not remember'd they were laid by Man;
And weigh'd most subtly in the scale of sense.
Each turn of chance—but not of Providence;
Trac'd from each source, save One, the sure event,
But dost not know that One Omnipotent!
Let thy vain hand strife's lightning signal yield,
And wake war's thunder on war's deadliest field;
By thee, whose mad ambition fir'd the world,
"Tis well that torch of discord should be hurl'd.[1]
Ev'n in their sadness are undaunted still.
'Tis Duty nerves beneath Misfortune's rod,
Trust in their chief—yet less in him than God.
Slow move the hours; the tardy morn still shrouds.
Her feeble radiance in a night of clouds.
Dim thro' the vapour, and the driving storm,
On either height stalks many a warlike form.
And who is he amid the Gallic host,
With that fierce gesture of insulting boast?
Who, as to seize the prey in fancy won,
Clench'd his rais'd hand? It is Napoleon.
Ha! dost thou hold them in thy savage grasp?
That eager hand on empty air may clasp!
Well hast thou laid each deep dissembled plan,—
But not remember'd they were laid by Man;
And weigh'd most subtly in the scale of sense.
Each turn of chance—but not of Providence;
Trac'd from each source, save One, the sure event,
But dost not know that One Omnipotent!
Let thy vain hand strife's lightning signal yield,
And wake war's thunder on war's deadliest field;
By thee, whose mad ambition fir'd the world,
"Tis well that torch of discord should be hurl'd.[1]
- ↑ "It is said that Buonaparte fired, with his own hand, the first cannon at Waterloo.