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.
“On! On!” was still his stern exclaim; “Confront the battery’s jaws of flame! Rush on the levelled gun! My steel-clad cuirassiers, advance! Each Hulan forward with his lance, My Guard—my Chosen—charge for France, France and Napoleon!” Loud answered their acclaiming shout, Greeting the mandate which sent out Their bravest and their best to dare The fate their leader shunned to share. But HE, his country’s sword and shield, Still in the battle-front revealed, Where danger fiercest swept the field, Came like a beam of light, In action prompt, in sentence brief— “Soldiers, stand firm!” exclaimed the Chief, “England shall tell the fight!”
On came the whirlwind—like the last But fiercest sweep of tempest-blast— On came the whirlwind—steel-gleams broke Like lightning through the rolling smoke; The war was waked anew, Three hundred cannon-mouths roared loud, And from their throats, with flash and cloud, Their showers of iron threw. Beneath their fire, in full career, Rushed on the ponderous cuirassier, The lancer couched his ruthless spear, And hurrying as to havoc near, The cohorts’ eagles flew. In one dark torrent, broad and strong, The advancing onset rolled along, Forth harbingered by fierce acclaim, That, from the shroud of smoke and flame, Pealed wildly the imperial name.
But on the British heart were lost The terrors of the charging host; For not an eye the storm that viewed Changed its proud glance of fortitude, Nor was one forward footstep stayed, As dropped the dying and the dead. Fast as their ranks the thunders tear, Fast they renewed each serried square; And on the wounded and the slain Closed their diminished files again, Till from their line scarce spears’-lengths three, Emerging from the smoke they see Helmet, and plume, and panoply,— Then waked their fire at once! Each musketeer’s revolving knell, As fast, as regularly fell, As when they practise to display Their discipline on festal day. Then down went helm and lance, Down were the eagle banners sent, Down reeling steeds and riders went, Corslets were pierced, and pennons rent; And, to augment the fray, Wheeled full against their staggering flanks, The English horsemen’s foaming ranks Forced their resistless way. Then to the musket-knell succeeds The clash of swords—the neigh of steeds— As plies the smith his clanging trade, Against the cuirass rang the blade; And while amid their close array The well-served cannon rent their way, And while amid their scattered band Raged the fierce rider’s bloody brand, Recoiled in common rout and fear, Lancer and guard and cuirassier, Horsemen and foot,—a mingled host Their leaders fall’n, their standards lost.