Yet, even in yon sequester’d 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 controul Those passions wild, that stubborn soul, That marr’d thy prosperous scene:-- Hear this--from no unmoved heart, Which sighs, comparing what THOU ART With what thou MIGHT’ST HAVE BEEN! XIX. Thou, too, whose deeds of fame renew’d 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, thy state’s decree, The ducal rank, the garter’d 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 soften’d 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 press’d His blushing consort to his breast; The husband, whom through many a year Long love and mutual faith endear. Thou can’st not name one tender tie But here dissolved its reliques lie! O 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, suppress’d, Is labouring in a father’s breast,-- With no enquiry vain pursue The cause, but think on Waterloo! XXI.