Page:Poems By Chauncy Hare Townshend.djvu/370
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WATERLOO.
Ye, whose firm front all Gallia's shock endures,
O when was bravery unmixt as yours?
'Twas not the inflated drunkenness of zeal,
Which dares not reason, but can only feel,
Such as Mohammed's fierce enthusiasts fir'd,
Or Odin's wild, barbaric chiefs inspir'd.
Ye saw no Houries, at the blissful gate,
No hall of heroes your proud triumphs wait.
To die ye deem'd not was to be forgiven,
The field, the path—the sword, the key to heaven.
Then what the vital spark, that inly burn'd,
What the high energy, which danger spurn'd?
The patriot's noble ardour,—lofty thought,
Which calmly look'd on all it shunn'd or sought.
And some there were, in whom a holier hope
Taught more serenely with the fight to cope;
With brighter prospects cheer'd the parting soul,
Than the poor promise of the nectar'd bowl,
And, while it urg'd not rashly on to death,
Drew his deep sting, and sooth'd the ebbing breath.
Nor your's gay Valour's momentary glance,
Which flash'd, or faded in the sons of France,
Like bubbles, lost in air, which form'd them first,
Their rainbow colours brightest, ere they burst.
Your's in resistance keen concentred shone,
Their's in wild onset gather'd heat alone.
O when was bravery unmixt as yours?
'Twas not the inflated drunkenness of zeal,
Which dares not reason, but can only feel,
Such as Mohammed's fierce enthusiasts fir'd,
Or Odin's wild, barbaric chiefs inspir'd.
Ye saw no Houries, at the blissful gate,
No hall of heroes your proud triumphs wait.
To die ye deem'd not was to be forgiven,
The field, the path—the sword, the key to heaven.
Then what the vital spark, that inly burn'd,
What the high energy, which danger spurn'd?
The patriot's noble ardour,—lofty thought,
Which calmly look'd on all it shunn'd or sought.
And some there were, in whom a holier hope
Taught more serenely with the fight to cope;
With brighter prospects cheer'd the parting soul,
Than the poor promise of the nectar'd bowl,
And, while it urg'd not rashly on to death,
Drew his deep sting, and sooth'd the ebbing breath.
Nor your's gay Valour's momentary glance,
Which flash'd, or faded in the sons of France,
Like bubbles, lost in air, which form'd them first,
Their rainbow colours brightest, ere they burst.
Your's in resistance keen concentred shone,
Their's in wild onset gather'd heat alone.