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EPITAPH BY LORD BYRON.

[The following stanzas are from the pen of lord Byron. We believe they have never appeared in any edition of his works.]

BRIGHT be the place of thy soul!
No lovelier spirit than thine
E'er burst from its mortal control,
In the orbs of the blessed to shine:
On earth thou wert all but divine,

As thy soul shall immortally be,
And our sorrow may cease to repine

When we know that thy God is with thee.

Light be the turf of thy tomb!

May its verdure like emeralds be!
There should not be shadow of gloom
In aught that reminds us of thee:
Young flowers and an evergreen tree
May grow on the spot of thy rest,
But nor cypress nor yew let us see-
For why should we mourn for the blest?

THE TOMB OF BURROWS.

I saw the green turf resting cold
On Burrows' hallow'd grave,
No stone the inquiring patriot told
Where slept the good and brave.

Heaven's rain and dew conspired to blo
The traces of the holy spot.

No flowrets deck'd the little mound,
That moulder'd on his breast,
Nor rural maidens, gath'ring round,
His tomb with garlands drest;

But sporting children thoughtless trod
On Valour's consecrated sod.

I mourn'd, who for his country bleeds
Should be forgot so soon,
That fairest fame and brightest deeds
Should want a common boon.

But oh! the rich have hearts of steel,
And what can Pen'ry more than feel?

At length "a passing Stranger"* came
Whose hand its bounties shed,

He bade the speaking marble claim
A tribute for the dead:

And, sweetly blending, hence shall flow
The tears of Gratitude and Woe.

• Mr. Davis of New York.

THE FIELD OF WATERLOO;

A POEM-BY WALTER SCOTT, ESQ.

This poem, which with its notes we present entire to our readers, possesses as much interest, perhaps, as the description of any single battle can excite, and is enriched with ornaments of fancy and language as splendid as those with which the powerful genius of its justly celebrated author has already decorated the fields of Flodden and Bannockburne. Nothing can prove more forcibly the fertility of his imagination and his extraordinary discriminating powers than that he has delineated in the strongest lines and the richest colours of poetry, three great battles, and has been able to make a fine picture of each of them, widely different from that of either of the others in style, features, and general character. Walter Scott is the Shakspeare of combats.

FAIR Brussels, thoi art far behind, Though, lingering on the morning wind,

We yet may hear the hour Peal'd over orchard and canal, With voice prolong'd and measur'd fall,

From proud Saint Michael's tower; Thy wood, dark Soignies, holds us now, Where the tall beaches' glossy bough For many a league around, With birch and darksome oak between, Spreads deep and far a pathless screen, Of tangled forest ground. Stems planted close by stems defy Th' adventurous foot-the curious eye For access seeks in vain; And the brown tapestry of leaves, Strew'd on the blighted ground, receives Nor sun, nor air, nor rain. No opening glade dawns on our way, No streamlet, glancing to the ray,

Our woodland path has cross'd; And the straight causeway which we tread, Prolongs a line of dull arcade, Unvarying through the unvaried shade Until in distance lost.

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A brighter, livelier scene succeeds;
In groups the scattering wood recedes,
Hedge-rows, and huts, and sunny meads,

And corn-fields glance between;
The peasant, at his labour blithe,
Plies the hook'd staff and shorten'd sithe:

But when these ears were green, Placed close within Destruction's scope,

Full little was that rustic's hope

Their ripening to have seen! And, lo, a hamlet and its fane:Let not the gazer with disdain

Their architecture view; For yonder rude ungraceful shrine, And disproportioned spire, are thine, Immortal Waterloo!

III.

Fear not the heat, though full and high
The sun has scorch'd the autumn sky,
And scarce a forest straggler now
To shade us spreads a greenwood bough;
These fields have seen a hotter day
Than ere was fired by sunny ray.
Yet one mile on-yon shatter'd hedge
Crests the soft hill whose long smooth ridge
Looks on the field below,
And sinks so gently on the dale,
That not the folds of Beauty's veil

In easier curves can flow.

Brief space from thence, the ground again Ascending slowly from the plain,

Forms an opposing screen, Which, with its crest of upland ground, Shuts th' horizon all around.

The soften'd vale between Slopes smooth and fair for courser's tread; Not the most timid maid need dread To give her snow-white palfrey head On that wide stubble-ground; Nor wood, nor tree, nor bush are there, Her course to intercept or scare, Nor fosse nor fence are found,

The reaper in Flanders carries in his left hand a stick with an iron hook, with which he collects as much grain as he can cut at one sweep with a short sithe, which he holds in his right hand. They carry on this double process with great spirit and dexterity."

Save where, from out her shatter'd bow

ers,

Rise Hougomont's dismantled towers.

IV.

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 lighten'd 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 rn vics danced such round As Teniers loved to draw;

And where the earth seems scorch'd by flame

To dress the homely feast they came, And told the 'kerchief'd village dame Around her fire of straw."

V.

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 sithe demands, Was gather'd 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

Full thick as ripen'd 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.

VI.

Ay, look again-that line so black
And trampied, marks the bivouack,
Yon deep-graved ruts the artillery's track,
So often lost and won;

And close beside, the harden'd mud
Still shows where, fetlock-deep in blood,
The fierce dragoon, through battle's flood,
Dash'd the hot war-horse on.
These spots of excavation tell
The ravage of the bursting shell-
And feelst thou not the tainted steam,
That reeks against the sultry beam,

From yonder trenched mound?

The pestilential fumes declare
That Carnage has replenish'd there
Her garner house profound.

|

VII.

Far other harvest-home and feast, Than claims the boor from sithe releas'd, On these scorch'd fields were known! Death hover'd o'er the maddening route, | 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 ecstacy

Distingish every tone.

That fill'd the chorus of the frayFrom canton roar and trumpet-bray, From charging squadrons' wild hurra, From the wild clang that mark'd their

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Feast on!-but think not that a strife,
Feast on, stern foe of mortal life,
With such promiscuous carnage rife,
The deadly tug of war at length
Protracted space may last;
Must limits find in human strength,
And cease when these are pass'd.
Vain hope!-that morn's o'erclouded sun
Heard the wild shout of fight begun
Ere he attaiu'd his height,
And through the war-smoke volumed high
Still peals that unremitted ery,

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 paused not, Nor ceased the storm of shell and shot; For all that war could do

Of skill and force was proved that day,
And turn'd not yet the doubtful fray
On bloody Waterloo.

IX.

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.

It was affirmed by the prisoners of war, that Bonaparte had promised bis army, in case of vie tory, twenty-four hours plunder of the city of Brussels.

What ghastly sights were thine to meet,
When, rolling through thy stately street,
The wounded show'd their mangled plight
In token of the unfinish'd 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 outstretch'd hand

Points to his prey in vain,
While maddening in his eager mood,
And all unwont to be withstood,
He fires the fight again.

X.

On! On!" was still his stern exclaim; "Confront the battery's jaws of flame!

"Rush on the levell'd gun!* "My steel-clad cuirassiers, advance! "Each Hulan forward with his lance, "My Guard-my chosen-charge for

France,

"France and Napoleon!"

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The characteristic obstinacy of Napoleon was never more fully displayed than in what we may be permitted to hope will prove the last of his fields. He would hsten to no advice, and allow of no obstacles. An eye-witness has given the following account of his demeanor towards the end of the action:

"It was near seven o'clock; Bonaparte, who, till then, had remained upon the ridge of the hill whence he could best behold what passed, contemplated, with a stern countenance, the scene of this horrible slaughter. The more that obstacles seemed to multiply, the more his obstinacy seemed to Increase. He became indignant at these unforeseen difficulties; and, far from fearing to push to extremities an army whose confidence in him was boundless, he ceased not to pour down fresh troops, and to give orders to march forward-to charge with the bayonet-to carry by storm. He was repeatedly informed, from different points, that the day went against hin, and that the troops seemed to be disordered; to which he only replied-' En avant! en avant!

"One general sent to inform the Fnperor that he was in a position which he could not maintain, because it was commanded by a battery, and requested to know, at the same time, in what way be should protect his division from the murderous fire of the English artillery. Let him storm the battery, replied Bonaparte, and turned his back on the aid-de-camp who brought the message.”—Relation de la Bataille de Mont-Saint-Jean. Par un Temoin Occulaire. Paris. 1815. 8vo. p. 51.

+ It has been reported that Bonaparte charged at the head of his guards at the last period of this dreadful conflict. This, however, is not accurate. He came down, indeed, to a hollow part of the high road leading to Charleroi, within less than a quarter of a mile of the farm of La Haye Sante, one of the points most fiercely disputed. Here he harangued the guards, and informed them that his preceding operations had destroyed the British infantry and cavalry, and that they had only to support the fire of the artillery, which they were to attack with the bayonet. This exhortation was received with shouts of Vive l'Empereur, which were heard over all our line, and led to an idea that Napoleon was charging in person. But the guards were led on by Ney; nor did Bonaparte ap proach nearer the scene of action than the spot already mentioned, which the rising banks on each side rendered secure from all such bails as did not come in a straight line. He witnessed the earlier part of the battle from places yet more remote, particularly from an observatory which had been placed there by the king of the Netherlands, some weeks before, for the purpose of surveying the country. It is not meant to infer from these particulars that Napoleon showed, on that memora ble occasion, the least deficiency in personal courage; on the contrary, he evinced the greatest com posure and presence of mind during the whole action. But it is no less true that report has erred in ascribing to him any desperate efforts of valour for the recovery of the battle; and it is remarką, ble, that during the whole carnage, none of his suite were either killed or wounded, whereas scarcely one of the duke of Wellington's personal attendants escaped unhurt.

In riding up to a regiment which was hard pressed!, the duke called to the men, "Soldiers, we must never be beat-what will they say in England?" It is needless to say how this appeal was answered.

The mistakes concerning this observatory have been mutual. The English supposed it was erected for the use of Bonaparte; and a French writer afflrins it was constructed by the duke of Wellington.

The lancer couch'd his ruthless spear,
And hurrying as to havoc near,

The cohorts' eagles flew.

In one dark torrent, broad and strong,
The advancing onset roll'd along,
Forth harbinger'd by fierce acclaim,
That from the shroud of smoke and flame,
Peal'd wildly the imperial name.

XII.

But on the British heart were lost
The terrors of the charging host;
For not an eye the storm that view'd
Changed its proud glance of fortitude,
Ner was one forward footstep staid,
As dropp'd the dying and the dead.
Fast as their ranks the thunders tear,
Fast they renew'd each serried square;
And on the wounded and the slain
Closed their diminish'd files again,
Till from their lines scarce spears' lengths
three,

Emerging from the smoke they see
Helmet, and plume, and panoply—

Then wak'd their fire at once!
Each musketeer's revolving knell,
As fast, as regularly fell,

As when they practice to display
Their discipline on festal day.

Then down went helm and fance, Down were the eagle banners sent, Down reeling steeds and riders went, Corslets were pierced, and pennons rent;

And to augment the fray, Wheel'd full against their staggering flanks,

The English horse men'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 scatter'd band Rag'd the fierce rider's bloody brand, Recoil'd in common rout and fear, Lancer, and guard, and cuirassier, Horsemen, and foot-a mingled host, Their leaders fall'n, their standards lost,

XIII.

Then, WELLINGTON! thy piercing eye This crisis caught of destiny

The British host had stood That mourn 'gainst charge of sword and lance

As their own ocean-rocks hold stance,
But when thy voice had said, “Advance!"
They were their ocean's flood.-
O Thou, whose inauspicious aim
Hath wrought thy host this hour of shame,
Think'st thou thy broken bands will bide
The terrors of yon rushing tide?
Or will thy chosen brook to feel
The British shock of levell'd steel?f

Or dost thou turn thine eye
Where coming squadrons gleam afar,
And fresher thunders wake the war,
And other standards fly?
Think not that in yon columns, file
Thy conquering troops from distant Dyle,
Is Blucher yet unknown?
Or dwells not in thy memory still,
(Heard frequent in thine hour of ill,)
What notes of hate and vengeance thrill
In Prussia's trumpet tone?
What yet remains?-shall it be thine
To head the reliques of thy line

In one dread effort more?The Romau lore thy leisure loved, And thou can'st tell what fortune proven That chieftain, who, of yore, Ambition's dizzy paths essay'd, And with the gladiators' aid

For empire enterprised

He stood the cast his rashness play'd
Left not the victims he had made,

A private soldier of the 95th regiment compared the sound which took place immediately upon the British cavalry mingling with those of the enemy, to “a thousand tinkers at work mending pote and kettles."

No persuasion or authority could prevail upon the French troops to stand the shock of the bayo net. The imperial guards, in particular, hardly stood till the British were within thirty yards of them, although the French author, already quoted, has put into their mouths the magnanimous sentiment, "The guards never yield-they die." The same author has covered the plateau, or em nence, of St. Jean, which formed the British position, with redoubts and intrenchments which never had an existence. As the narrative, which is in many respects curious, was written by an eye-wit nesss he was probably deceived by the appearance of a road and a ditch which runs along part of the hill. It may be also mentioned, in criticising this work, that the writer states the chateau of Hougomont to have been carried by the French, although it was resolutely and successfully defended during the whole action. The enemy, indeed, possessed themselves of the wood by which it is surrounded, and at length set fire to the house itself; but the British (a detachment of the guards, under the command of colonel Macdonnell, and afterwards of colonel Home) made good the garden, and thus preserved, by their desperate reshtance, the post which covered the return of the duke of Wellington's right flank.

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