WATERLOO. 340 ?Eolian notes, that still most sweetly cast Their melting music on the rudest blast. But, oh, for thee, braYe Warrior, who afar From thine own isle dost bear the brunt of war, Wild are this'sabba'&'s rites ;--the cannons roar For bells' glad music on thy native shore. For the sweet hymn the onset's madd'uing cry, Shrieks of the wounded, groans of those, who die. The foe's stem greeting, for the peaceful train, Who only meet, to seek the sacred fane. No prayer, save that in hurried dierice given, Which but commends the parting soul to Heaven. ." No rest--ab, yes l--a rest, which nought shah break, 'Till the pale sleepers of the tomb awake. Ah, to that scene the muse reluctant tums, Where the groan deepens, and the combat barns; Or, if it pause, war's rage awhile represt Is but the earthquake's interval of rest. Tho' to the west deelines-the'wearied sun, Unglutted carnage seems but new begun. Swells the full fight, cornmingled; 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. ......... ?Google
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