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! As thy soul shall immortally be, When we know that thy God is with thee. Light be the turf of thy tomb! May its verdure like emeralds be! THE TOMB OF BURROWS. I saw the green turf resting cold Heaven's rain and dew conspired to blo No flowrets deck'd the little mound, But sporting children thoughtless trod I mourn'd, who for his country bleeds But oh! the rich have hearts of steel, At length "a passing Stranger"* came He bade the speaking marble claim And, sweetly blending, hence shall flow • 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. ][. A brighter, livelier scene succeeds; And corn-fields glance between; 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 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 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 close beside, the harden'd mud From yonder trenched mound? The pestilential fumes declare | 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 Feast on!-but think not that a strife, 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, IX. Pale Brussels! then what thoughts were thine,* When ceaseless from the distant line Each burgher held his breath, to hear 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, Points to his prey in vain, 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!" 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, The cohorts' eagles flew. In one dark torrent, broad and strong, XII. But on the British heart were lost Emerging from the smoke they see Then wak'd their fire at once! As when they practice to display 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 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, Or dost thou turn thine eye 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 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. |