Yet, even in yon sequestered spot, May worthier conquest be thy lot Than yet thy life has known; Conquest, unbought by blood or harm, That needs nor foreign aid nor arm, A triumph all thine own. Such waits thee when thou shalt control Those passions wild, that stubborn soul, That marred thy prosperous scene:— Hear this—from no unmovéd heart, Which sighs, comparing what THOU ART With what thou MIGHT’ST HAVE BEEN! XIX. Thou, too, whose deeds of fame renewed Bankrupt a nation’s gratitude, To thine own noble heart must owe More than the meed she can bestow. For not a people’s just acclaim, Not the full hail of Europe’s fame, Thy Prince’s smiles, the State’s decree, The ducal rank, the gartered knee, Not these such pure delight afford As that, when hanging up thy sword, Well may’st thou think, “This honest steel Was ever drawn for public weal; And, such was rightful Heaven’s decree, Ne’er sheathed unless with victory!” XX. Look forth, once more, with softened heart, Ere from the field of fame we part; Triumph and Sorrow border near, And joy oft melts into a tear. Alas! what links of love that morn Has War’s rude hand asunder torn! For ne’er was field so sternly fought, And ne’er was conquest dearer bought, Here piled in common slaughter sleep Those whom affection long shall weep Here rests the sire, that ne’er shall strain His orphans to his heart again; The son, whom, on his native shore, The parent’s voice shall bless no more; The bridegroom, who has hardly pressed His blushing consort to his breast; The husband, whom through many a year Long love and mutual faith endear. Thou canst not name one tender tie, But here dissolved its relics lie! Oh! when thou see’st some mourner’s veil Shroud her thin form and visage pale, Or mark’st the Matron’s bursting tears Stream when the stricken drum she hears; Or see’st how manlier grief, suppressed, Is labouring in a father’s breast,— With no inquiry vain pursue The cause, but think on Waterloo! XXI.