Page:Poems By Chauncy Hare Townshend.djvu/383
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WATERLOO.
359
At once from Emperor to nothing hurl'd,
Has left to peace th' arena of the world.
Yes; all is o'er! War's storm has past away,
And earth reviving shines in clearer day.
The world re-blooms, Peace flourishes anew
Like thy own field, victorious Waterloo!
Where, for the ghastly corses of the slain,
Fair Plenty piles her sheaves of golden grain;
Or verdure freshly springs, and flowerets wave,
In vernal beauty, o'er the warrior's grave.
Proud theatre of Freedom! Blest domain,
Where injur'd Justice dar'd assert her reign,
Still shalt thou live, still boast the Despot's fall,
Twin'd with high names, yet loftier than them all.
Heart-kindling spot, to thee shall Fancy stray,
To thee the bard still consecrate his lay;
Still many a pilgrim roam thy vale around,
Lingering, as if the spot were holy ground,
Ev'n tho' he shed no heart-wrung, bitter tear
For death too kindred, and for woe too near;
Hail'd in each clime, by unborn ages sung,
Whose fate on thee in wavering balance hung.
While oak, or olive binds each nation's brow,
And mourning Brunswick wreathes the cypress bough,
While France, yet trembling from Destruction's flood,
Wears her pale Lily, stain'd with filial blood,
Has left to peace th' arena of the world.
Yes; all is o'er! War's storm has past away,
And earth reviving shines in clearer day.
The world re-blooms, Peace flourishes anew
Like thy own field, victorious Waterloo!
Where, for the ghastly corses of the slain,
Fair Plenty piles her sheaves of golden grain;
Or verdure freshly springs, and flowerets wave,
In vernal beauty, o'er the warrior's grave.
Proud theatre of Freedom! Blest domain,
Where injur'd Justice dar'd assert her reign,
Still shalt thou live, still boast the Despot's fall,
Twin'd with high names, yet loftier than them all.
Heart-kindling spot, to thee shall Fancy stray,
To thee the bard still consecrate his lay;
Still many a pilgrim roam thy vale around,
Lingering, as if the spot were holy ground,
Ev'n tho' he shed no heart-wrung, bitter tear
For death too kindred, and for woe too near;
Hail'd in each clime, by unborn ages sung,
Whose fate on thee in wavering balance hung.
While oak, or olive binds each nation's brow,
And mourning Brunswick wreathes the cypress bough,
While France, yet trembling from Destruction's flood,
Wears her pale Lily, stain'd with filial blood,