WATERLOO. Eolian notes, that still most sweetly cast Their melting music on the rudest blast. 349 But, oh, for thee, brave Warrior, who afar From thine own isle dost bear the brunt of war, Wild are this sabbath's rites;-the cannons roar For bells' glad music on thy native shore. For the sweet hymn the onset's madd'ning ery, Shrieks of the wounded, groans of those, who die. The foe's stern greeting, for the peaceful train, Who only meet, to seek the sacred fane. No prayer, save that in hurried silence given, Which but commends the parting soul to Heaven. No rest-ah, yes!-a rest, which nought shall break, "Till the pale sleepers of the tomb awake. Ah, to that scene the muse reluctant turns, Where the groan deepens, and the combat burns; Or, if it pause, war's rage awhile represt Is but the earthquake's interval of rest. Tho' to the west declines the wearied sun, Unglutted carnage seems but new begun. Swells the full fight, commingled; not, as erst, Fix'd to one point, but in one general burst. As clouds, that late o'er ether wide were driven, Meet, mix, and combat in the midst of Heaven.
