WATl?RLOO'. Wide o'er the landscape casts the angry hue, Gleams on the village fane of Waterloo; Then, deeply red, as if suffus'd with blood, Sinks into gloom be.hind d?rk Soignies' wood. A deadly stillness, which is not. ?e*.l?ose, O'er earth and air its dull stagnation throws. Is ?t that Nature thus suspends her breath, List'ning afar the rushing wings of Death ? On the low brow of yonder gentle hi!l, - Where the corn rustles, tho* the wind is still, No shepherds watch, no peasants braid the dance, 'Tis England rani/'d against the might of France. Her mustering myriads crown the oPPOsing height, While dark between them drops the 'Veil of Night. Short separation ! They at morn sha!l'mcet With sUCh good morrow as a foe may greet. Oh ! 'till that hour what expectation reio-ns , Drinks the quick breath, and thrills the fever'd veins; Dread the fierce onset, dread the stern defence, But what can match the sickness of suspense ? To act, to su?er, may be nobly great, But Nature's mightiest effort is, to wait[ Did it not seem relief, when, rous'd at length, Burst the full tempest in its gather d strength ? Did not the'body's added hardships win The mind from' turning on itself within ? ......... ?GooBIe
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