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WATERLOO.[1]
O that to me the deathless song were given,
Thoughts born of light, and words that breathe of Heaven!
O might I wake those strains from Echo's cave,
Which died in melody o'er Milton's grave!
Then the rapt hope were mine to sing and soar,
Where never poet dar'd his flight before,
And ev'n to Glory's loftiest realm pursue
Thy matchless theme, immortal Waterloo.
But vainly now, still lab'ring unexprest,
Pants the deep feeling in my baffled breast.
Thoughts born of light, and words that breathe of Heaven!
O might I wake those strains from Echo's cave,
Which died in melody o'er Milton's grave!
Then the rapt hope were mine to sing and soar,
Where never poet dar'd his flight before,
And ev'n to Glory's loftiest realm pursue
Thy matchless theme, immortal Waterloo.
But vainly now, still lab'ring unexprest,
Pants the deep feeling in my baffled breast.
- ↑ Written for the Chancellor's Prize at Cambridge, 1820.—As this poem is not published with the slightest intention of impugning the decision, which awarded the prize to another composition; many parts, which were omitted when it was sent in, have been again inserted, and some corrections have been made.
The order of events forms the plan of the poem. With the exception of one digression to Brussels, it has been scrupulously observed.
