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!
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!
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;—
Stern tide of Time! through what mysterious change Of hope and fear have our frail barks been driven! For ne’er, before, vicissitude so strange Was to one race of Adam’s offspring given. And sure such varied change of sea and heaven, Such unexpected bursts of joy and woe, Such fearful strife as that where we have striven, Succeeding ages ne’er again shall know, Until the awful term when Thou shalt cease to flow.
Well hast thou stood, my Country!—the brave fight Hast well maintained through good report and ill; In thy just cause and in thy native might, And in Heaven’s grace and justice constant still; Whether the banded prowess, strength, and skill Of half the world against thee stood arrayed, Or when, with better views and freer will, Beside thee Europe’s noblest drew the blade, Each emulous in arms the Ocean Queen to aid.