| There was a sound of revelry by night, |
| And Belgium’s
Capital had gathered then |
| Her Beauty and her
Chivalry, and bright |
| The lamps shone
o’er fair women and brave men ; |
| A thousand hearts
beat happily; and when |
| Music
arose with its voluptuous swell, |
| Soft eyes looked
love to eyes which spake again, |
| And all went merry
as a marriage bell; |
But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a
rising knell!
|
| Did ye not hear it?—No; ’twas but the wind, |
| Or the car
rattling o’er the stony street ; |
| On with the dance!
let joy be unconfined ; |
| No sleep till
morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet |
| To chase the
glowing Hours with flying feet— |
| But hark!—that
heavy sound breaks in once more, |
| As if the clouds
its echo would repeat; |
| And nearer,
clearer, deadlier than before! |
Arm! Arm! it is—it is—the cannon’s opening
roar!
|
| Within a windowed niche of that high hall |
| Sate Brunswick’s
fated chieftain; he did hear |
| That sound the
first amidst the festival, |
| And caught its
tone with Death’s prophetic ear; |
| And when they
smiled because he deemed it near, |
| His heart more
truly knew that peal too well |
| Which stretched
his father on a bloody bier, |
| And roused the
vengeance blood alone could quell; |
He rushed into the field, and, foremost
fighting, fell.
|
| Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, |
| And gathering
tears, and tremblings of distress, |
| And cheeks all
pale, which but an hour ago |
| Blushed at the
praise of their own loveliness; |
| And there were
sudden partings, such as press |
| The life from out
young hearts, and choking sighs |
| Which ne’er might
be repeated; who could guess |
| If ever more
should meet those mutual eyes, |
Since upon night so sweet such awful morn
could rise!
|
| And there was mounting in hot haste: the
steed, |
| The mustering
squadron, and the clattering car, |
| Went pouring
forward with impetuous speed, |
| And swiftly
forming in the ranks of war; |
| And the deep
thunder peal on peal afar; |
| And near, the beat
of the alarming drum |
| Roused up the
soldier ere the morning star; |
| While thronged the
citizens with terror dumb, |
Or whispering, with white lips—‘The foe!
They come! they come!’
|
| And wild and high the ‘Cameron’s Gathering’
rose! |
| The war-note of
Lochiel, which Albyn’s hills |
| Have heard, and
heard, too, have her Saxon foes:— |
| How in the noon of
night that pibroch thrills, |
| Savage and shrill!
But with the breath which fills |
| Their
mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers |
| With the fierce
native daring which instils |
| The stirring
memory of a thousand years, |
And Evan’s, Donald’s fame rings in each
clansman’s ears!
|
| And Ardennes waves above them her green
leaves, |
| Dewy with nature’s
tear-drops, as they pass, |
| Grieving, if aught
inanimate e’er grieves, |
| Over the
unreturning brave,—alas! |
| Ere evening to be
trodden like the grass |
| Which now beneath
them, but above shall grow |
| In its next
verdure, when this fiery mass |
| Of living valour,
rolling on the foe |
And burning with high hope, shall moulder
cold and low.
|
| Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, |
| Last eve in
Beauty’s circle proudly gay, |
| The midnight
brought the signal-sound of strife, |
| The morn the
marshalling in arms,—the day |
| Battle’s
magnificently-stern array! |
| The thunder-clouds
close o’er it, which when rent |
| The earth is
covered thick with other clay |
| Which her own clay
shall cover, heaped and pent, |
Rider and horse,—friend, foe,—in one red
burial blent!
|
| Lord Byron |
Classic Poems |
| |
|
[ Destruction of the Sennacherib ] [ Growing Old ] [ She Walks in Beauty ] [ Italy versus England ] [ The Eve of Waterloo ] [ from The Prisoner of Chillon ] [ The Isles of Greece ] [ from Don Juan ] |
The
Eve of Waterloo