348 WATERLOO. Its toil suspended, and its calm delights. The bells sound faintly, as the ringer's hand Palsied with dread, had lost its own command. And who can bid their sacred summons hail? Heard ye not deeper sounds upon the gale?- The cannon's ceaseless roar, which Fancy's ear, As the breeze freshens, list'ning, deems more near. Yet haply to some small, retiring fane The holy pastor draws his simple train: Pale-yet serene his front-his silver hair More touch'd by time than bleach'd by earthly care. Silent awhile, his eyes, uprais'd to heaven, Declare whence all his strength is sought, and given; Then, as they fall, the sacred book he opes, And points the source, whence spring his tranquil hopes. He speaks of Him, who all things can perform, And reins the battle, as he guides the storm. They hang upon his lips; each face has caught From his a portion of the peace it sought. Amid the turbulence, that raves around, The hurrying crowd-the battle's swelling sound- This seems the last retreat, where Peace hath fled. Trembling to hide her meek, unshelter'd head. A Heaven in Hell-a star of lovely light, That brightest shines thro' severing clouds of night;
