Chapter V

“The field is won! Order the whole line to advance. Roll en masse on the wavering legions of France.” Thus ordered the Duke, and a responsive cry Of joy and glad triumph pealed up to the sky. On they came four deep, and like a torrent poured From the heights; and our hot guns boomed and roared. A fiery wave of valor they rolled on the foe, And irresistibly swept them to the valley below. All along our lines, from Papelotte to Merc Braine, Rose that thund’rous cheer of great triumph again. “Let the Life Guards charge them,” here the Iron Duke said; And a grand brigade of horse, by Lord Uxbridge led, Rode down on the French centre, sabreing them there. Broken and dispirited, they waver in despair. Incessantly our cavalry charge on the foe, Flashing and flaming in the lurid sunset’s glow; Piercing and dismembering the French everywhere, While the infantry press forward the laurels to share. With the bayonet the foe they sweep from their path, A Nemesis of fate in o’erpowering wrath. The Prussian guns play on their right flank and their rear; The British bayonet in front; while a panic of fear Spreads through their wavering ranks, and the hopeless cry Of “Sauve qui peut!” resounds from their ranks reeling by. All in vain Marshal Ney, “the bravest of the brave,” Soult, Bertrand, Gourgand, and Labedoyer, to save The day, burst from the disorganiz’d mass, and on them call To stand firm, to conquer, or heroically fall! “For the Emperor and sunny Imperial France. Steady the lines and re-form, and again advance.” A battalion of the Old Guard alone obey. With brave Cambronne at their head, between the prey And their pursuers they form into square and stand, A sacrifice offering ’mid the ruin at hand— An offering to the tarnished honor of their arms Irretrievably ruined and fleeing in swarms Of disorganized masses before that oncoming wave Of British valor. No earthly power can save The lost day! Ruin’d and beaten, and drifting away Before that magnificent advance and array Of chivalry, worthy of “the brave days of old.” Glorified in the sunset, onward it rolled! Through the “valley of the shadow of death” they go, Devastatingly rolling upon the lost foe! Meanwhile, near La Belle Alliance, the Emperor still Had some regiments in reserve, biding his will; And was rapidly rallying his beaten Old Guard, Hitherto invincible—the watch and the ward Of his army—the last card in the desperate play Of the game of war, hitherto winning the day. The remnants of his cavalry he’d collected, too, Still hoping the British to pierce and break through. But the Duke’s eagle eye fathoms his useless game, And his valiant soul is now grandly aflame As he launches Vivian’s cavalry brigade Against him. And oh, the immortal charge they made! Through the “valley of the shadow of death” they tore, And on La Belle Alliance like a torrent pour, Sweeping all before them—cavalry, Old Guard, and all; And like destroying angels on his reserves they fall. Completely successful, they rode calmly back again Proudly over the lurid, ensanguined plain! O gallant hussars of a famous brigade, All time shall echo the destroying charge ye made! The Emperor strives his disasters to repair, And with lightning speed rides thither, everywhere, Commanding, ordering, imploring, but in vain. Broken and confused, they only exclaim, “Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!” and fly swift from the frightful field, Despairing masses that stagger and reel In inextricable confusion of headlong flight, Into the gloom and darkness of the falling night. The Emperor by his staff was now borne away, And disappeared in the shadows dim and gray— Disappeared, and his sun will rise nevermore; Gone down on the “soldier of destiny” for evermore; But on freed Europe the sun of peace doth rise, And the acclaims of freedom peal up to the skies. British valor all Europe never can forget; On that “field of fields” it is flaming grandly yet, And Wellington’s fame to posterity is given, Through storm and tempest unsullied, unriven. Who can forget the close of that eventful day? And the meeting there in the fading twilight gray Of Wellington and Blucher, clasping hands again Mutely over the heaps of wounded and slain? Clasping hands as brothers, with hearts too full to speak, While tears wash the battle stain from the soldier’s cheek! Aye, that was a meeting the world cannot forget, And the effect is lasting, it endureth yet.

All hail, old Scotia’s invincible clans, And the gallant sons of Erin’s green isle, And Britain’s indomitable men-at-arms! The genius of fair fame doth on them smile. United, ye are e’er invincible, A trinity that will not be denied, The fate of imperial France at Waterloo, The humbler of Napoleon’s despotic pride.

But, oh, the sight of that pent red field, Weird and terrible for evermore! ’Mid the awful silence of the slain, Britain’s generous heart is sore. Though the laurels of fame crown her brow, She mourns for her immortal slain; Though famous fore’er and signalized, She bows her illustrious head in pain. Thousands marshalled there that sweet June morn, Strong and beautiful, side by side; Eve saw them in eternal repose— Fearless in heart they dared and died. Play solemn dirges and bear them away, Play them tenderly, soft and low; Let the drum’s muffled tone fall on the ear, Steadily, mournfully, and slow. Reverently in the valley of death Lay them away to final sleep; Fit place to crown the immortal dead, Where brave, true comrades o’er them weep. Oh, soldier hearts! grand, intrepid souls! The years thy laurels shall renew; Britain thy devotion ne’er can forget, On that field of fields—Waterloo.