Poems (Gifford)/A Holiday

A HOLIDAY.

A glorious August day, an English three
Mingling with some of their own country folk,
And some of other lands on Belgian soil,
Intent on making most of holiday.
So, merrily they climbed the many steps,
And, panting, reached the summit of a mound
Huge, bare, unique, and found a resting-place
Beneath the shadow of a giant form,
A lion from French captured cannon cast,
Meet trophy of an English victory.
Thence gained they a wide, comprehensive view
Of gently undulating country,—fields of corn,
Varied but slightly by long rows of trees
And little groups of buildings here and there,
But all around teemed with deep interest
For many a nation, and for England most.

For here, at Waterloo, some decades since,
The flower of British forces, with allies
Friendly and true, gathered and put to rout
The last of that grand army, that so long
Had carried terror wheresoe'er it went.
At length Napoleon's course was surely checked,
The bold usurper's daring schemes were foiled,
Conquered the conqueror of a continent,
The troubler of all European peace,
The bitter foe of England. He had risen
By genius, valour, resolution, strength,
From dignity to dignity in France;
But by ambition, pride, and tyranny
Was lured to degradation and defeat;
And this the spot that saw his overthrow,
When Europe gained new hope and breathed afresh.

And now a quaint, gaunt man, in gorgeous garb,
Told (as each day he told) the far-famed tale
Of that momentous, memorable day
Of dire defeat, and splendid victory,
Of awful carnage, and resultant peace,
Of happy revolutionary aims,
And of bereavement in unnumbered homes.
Glibly, but with grim earnestness he talked,
And he had earnest listeners; yet his mien,
His very earnestness engendered smiles,
And still on every face was clearly writ
That one word—"Holiday." If aught recalled
The dark, dark, solemn awfulness of war,
Sad sights and sounds, the dismal moans and cries
Of wounded, dying; the now-smiling scene
Reeking with gore and full of ghastliness,
Swift passed the troubled vision; scarce a sigh
Or quickened heart-beat seemed to be called forth
By casual reference to the suffering
So keen, so real on that fateful day.
Honour, and nought but honour, seemed it now
To have it said, "He died at Waterloo."

Now points the old man round to various sites,
And tells how, after recent desperate fight,
And hard-won triumph, and brief, troubled rest,
The English general, brave Wellington,
"Mid burning heat, and frequent skirmishing,
And raging tempest, led his trustful troops
To a night's wet and cheerless bivouac,
With scanty rations, on this chosen field.
There, to the north, and stretching to the east
He fixed his main post, upon Mont St. Jean,
Dotting its front with squares of infantry,
And hiding men behind its sheltering crest.
There, to the south-west, in the chateau grounds
Of Hougoumont were other thousands massed,
And there, when morning's drizzle ceased, the French
Began the sharp encounter, and throughout
Maintained fierce fight,—the gallant British force
Against superior numbers standing firm,
Or swift recovering from a slight reverse.
Straight to the south, on the Belle Alliance heights,
'Mid trumpet clangour and the beat of drums,
The French in thirteen columns were disposed,
And, spreading between them and Mont St. Jean,
Was open valley upon either side
Of the high road from Brussels to Charleroi;
And, centrally conspicuous, there stood
By the roadside a farm—La Haie Sainte—
That in the fray endured such frequent charge
And varying fortune. To the right of French,
To eastward, was the little wood, the road
Whence towards the close of day the Prussians came
When English energies were well-nigh spent,—
There, Papelotte and Planchenois, their captured points.
All day had warfare lasted; yet th'allies,
Though valiantly, successfully they fought,
Had but repelled from their well-chosen ground
The bold, aggressive French; but, when at length
In the south-eastern distance were descried
Signs of the long-expected Prussian aid,
And when the foe, of conquest well assured,
But irritated by such firm defence,
Gathered his forces for a last attack,
Then, at their reverenced commander's word,
As, waving hat in air, he gave the sign,
Th' impetuous but long-curbed British ranks,
Full of high hope, and raising a glad cheer,
Swept forward down the slopes of Mont St. Jean,
And charged their way to speedy victory.
Then fled the hero of so many fights,
And from the field the battered residue
Of his grand army was completely driven;
Then fresher Prussian troops took up the chase
And pressed to southward the retreating host,
Leaving the brave but weary conquerors
To midnight rest upon the dead-strewn earth.

So ended the narration.

Merrily then
The three descended to the lower ground,
Entered the little house hard by, now famed
For the night-slumber of the Iron Duke,
And for his chronicle of the event
That sent such thrill of joy across the sea.
And here was many a relic of the past,
And present sweet refreshment; so they ate
Where Wellington had eaten, and they wrote
Where he had done, and chatted gaily on.

Forward to Hougoumont they hastened then,
And with the quaint old man's quaint sister there
In queerly blended languages they talked,
In the courtvard where once such struggle raged
But lazy-looking horses now turned in,
And by the well that held three hundred slain,
Where now the hens were pecking peacefully;
Marked with serene composure the effect
Of shot, and shell, and fire on chateau-walls,
In the small chapel, and where'er they turned;
And in the orchard, 'mid the verdant graves,
They strolled at ease, and laughingly peered through
Loopholes in walls, for tragic onslaught made.
Then went they on, in path circuitous,
Where, on the glorious, awful battlefield,
Masses of lovely cornflower grew in corn
That recent hail had flattened. Forward still
By other noted spots and monuments
They hurried on, until they reached again
The Lion Mound, and left to catch the train
That bore them back to Brussels.