Far other harvest-home and feast, Than claims the boor from scythe released, On these scorched fields were known! Death hovered o’er the maddening rout, And, in the thrilling battle-shout, Sent for the bloody banquet out A summons of his own. Through rolling smoke the Demon’s eye Could well each destined guest espy, Well could his ear in ecstasy Distinguish every tone That filled the chorus of the fray— From cannon-roar and trumpet-bray, From charging squadrons’ wild hurra, From the wild clang that marked their way,— Down to the dying groan, And the last sob of life’s decay, When breath was all but flown. VIII. Feast on, stern foe of mortal life, Feast on!—but think not that a strife, With such promiscuous carnage rife, Protracted space may last; The deadly tug of war at length Must limits find in human strength, And cease when these are past. Vain hope!—that morn’s o’erclouded sun Heard the wild shout of fight begun Ere he attained his height, And through the war-smoke, volumed high, Still peals that unremitted cry, Though now he stoops to night. For ten long hours of doubt and dread, Fresh succours from the extended head Of either hill the contest fed; Still down the slope they drew, The charge of columns pauséd not, Nor ceased the storm of shell and shot; For all that war could do Of skill and force was proved that day, And turned not yet the doubtful fray On bloody Waterloo. IX. Pale Brussels! then what thoughts were thine, When ceaseless from the distant line Continued thunders came! Each burgher held his breath, to hear These forerunners of havoc near, Of rapine and of flame. What ghastly sights were thine to meet, When rolling through thy stately street, The wounded showed their mangled plight In token of the unfinished fight, And from each anguish-laden wain The blood-drops laid thy dust like rain! How often in the distant drum Heard’st thou the fell Invader come, While Ruin, shouting to his band, Shook high her torch and gory brand!— Cheer thee, fair City! From yon stand, Impatient, still his outstretched hand Points to his prey in vain, While maddening in his eager mood, And all unwont to be withstood, He fires the fight again. X.