Period of honour as of woes, What bright careers ’twas thine to close!— Marked on thy roll of blood what names To Britain’s memory, and to Fame’s, Laid there their last immortal claims! Thou saw’st in seas of gore expire Redoubted PICTON’S soul of fire— Saw’st in the mingled carnage lie All that of PONSONBY could die— DE LANCEY change Love’s bridal-wreath For laurels from the hand of Death— Saw’st gallant MILLER’S failing eye Still bent where Albion’s banners fly, And CAMERON, in the shock of steel, Die like the offspring of Lochiel; And generous GORDON, ’mid the strife, Fall while he watched his leader’s life.— Ah! though her guardian angel’s shield Fenced Britain’s hero through the field. Fate not the less her power made known, Through his friends’ hearts to pierce his own! XXII. Forgive, brave Dead, the imperfect lay! Who may your names, your numbers, say? What high-strung harp, what lofty line, To each the dear-earned praise assign, From high-born chiefs of martial fame To the poor soldier’s lowlier name? Lightly ye rose that dawning day, From your cold couch of swamp and clay, To fill, before the sun was low, The bed that morning cannot know.— Oft may the tear the green sod steep, And sacred be the heroes’ sleep, Till time shall cease to run; And ne’er beside their noble grave, May Briton pass and fail to crave A blessing on the fallen brave Who fought with Wellington! XXIII. Farewell, sad Field! whose blighted face Wears desolation’s withering trace; Long shall my memory retain Thy shattered huts and trampled grain, With every mark of martial wrong, That scathe thy towers, fair Hougomont! Yet though thy garden’s green arcade The marksman’s fatal post was made, Though on thy shattered beeches fell The blended rage of shot and shell, Though from thy blackened portals torn, Their fall thy blighted fruit-trees mourn, Has not such havoc bought a name Immortal in the rolls of fame? Yes—Agincourt may be forgot, And Cressy be an unknown spot, And Blenheim’s name be new; But still in story and in song, For many an age remembered long, Shall live the towers of Hougomont And Field of Waterloo! CONCLUSION. STERN tide of human Time! that know’st not rest, But, sweeping from the cradle to the tomb, Bear’st ever downward on thy dusky breast Successive generations to their doom; While thy capacious stream has equal room For the gay bark where Pleasure’s steamers sport, And for the prison-ship of guilt and gloom, The fisher-skiff, and barge that bears a court, Still wafting onward all to one dark silent port;—