Now, see’st thou aught in this lone scene Can tell of that which late hath been?— A stranger might reply, “The bare extent of stubble-plain Seems lately lightened of its grain; And yonder sable tracks remain Marks of the peasant’s ponderous wain, When harvest-home was nigh. On these broad spots of trampled ground, Perchance the rustics danced such round As Teniers loved to draw; And where the earth seems scorched by flame, To dress the homely feast they came, And toiled the kerchiefed village dame Around her fire of straw.”
So deem’st thou—so each mortal deems, Of that which is from that which seems:— But other harvest here Than that which peasant’s scythe demands, Was gathered in by sterner hands, With bayonet, blade, and spear. No vulgar crop was theirs to reap, No stinted harvest thin and cheap! Heroes before each fatal sweep Fell thick as ripened grain; And ere the darkening of the day, Piled high as autumn shocks, there lay The ghastly harvest of the fray, The corpses of the slain.
Ay, look again—that line, so black And trampled, marks the bivouac, Yon deep-graved ruts the artillery’s track, So often lost and won; And close beside, the hardened mud Still shows where, fetlock-deep in blood, The fierce dragoon, through battle’s flood, Dashed the hot war-horse on. These spots of excavation tell The ravage of the bursting shell— And feel’st thou not the tainted steam, That reeks against the sultry beam, From yonder trenchéd mound? The pestilential fumes declare That Carnage has replenished there Her garner-house profound.
Far other harvest-home and feast, Than claims the boor from scythe released, On these scorched fields were known! Death hovered o’er the maddening rout, And, in the thrilling battle-shout, Sent for the bloody banquet out A summons of his own. Through rolling smoke the Demon’s eye Could well each destined guest espy, Well could his ear in ecstasy Distinguish every tone That filled the chorus of the fray— From cannon-roar and trumpet-bray, From charging squadrons’ wild hurra, From the wild clang that marked their way,— Down to the dying groan, And the last sob of life’s decay, When breath was all but flown.
Feast on, stern foe of mortal life, Feast on!—but think not that a strife, With such promiscuous carnage rife, Protracted space may last; The deadly tug of war at length Must limits find in human strength, And cease when these are past. Vain hope!—that morn’s o’erclouded sun Heard the wild shout of fight begun Ere he attained his height, And through the war-smoke, volumed high, Still peals that unremitted cry, Though now he stoops to night. For ten long hours of doubt and dread, Fresh succours from the extended head Of either hill the contest fed; Still down the slope they drew, The charge of columns pauséd not, Nor ceased the storm of shell and shot; For all that war could do Of skill and force was proved that day, And turned not yet the doubtful fray On bloody Waterloo.