WATERLOO. While Memory !lies; in sil e?t woe, shall bend O'er thy lov'd dust the parent--brother--friend. For thee the Muse a fadeless wreath would twine, And wed the name of Hougoumont to thine. Where is Britannia's chief?--Go--range where'er Threatens worst peril; thou shalt find him there. He is the soul of War. His words inspire, His dauntless looks, the keen electric fire. Nor more obey'd than 1ov'd; and, oh, how well Let dying Gordon, and Delancey tell ! Oh, how more true their warm affection's zeal, Than all that Gallia for her Chief can feel ! Tho' wild devotion in her sons i? seen, q'is love of self behind that nobler ecrecn. Their idol--Glory--they in him adore, Success has crowa'd him, and they.ask no more. And thou, Napoleon, who, on yonder height, From morn 'till eve, hast watch'd the dubious fight, From Albion's Chieftain, oh, how different far Thine hopes of conquest, and thine art of War ! Not thine, like him, where danger frowns to !end, But wave thy legions where they die; or bleed. Thou can'st not weep with him above the slain, Thou only mournest thine have fal!'n in vain. ......... ?Google
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