Page:Poems By Chauncy Hare Townshend.djvu/365

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WATERLOO.' 355 ? Fresh, and unbreath'd, impetuohs ?s the Wa?e, Oreedy as wolves, r?!entl?/s"the gra?e, The Prussian comes, his sword'in blood unste?p'd,' To gather in the harvest. England reap'd. Hope not for mercy ! �Did ye mercy shew, When pale Silesia'saw her conquering foe ? Remember Ligny, where the flag of Death Wav'd its black'menace o'e? the host beneath?*' The Briton, bulwark'd by his rocky strand, Ne'er' Saw thee blight the gardens of his No injur'd wife, n? m?rd?r'd offspring call His soul to vengeance on:the cruel Gaul: But there are wrongs; too deep'to be redrest, That fret, and r?nkle in the Prussian's breast. The cup of vengeance holds its mantiing draught Close to h/s lips,---and deep shall it be quaff'd But darkness yet that madd'ning flight may shroud.- Oh, for a night ?f t?mpest? gloom, and c!sud i Uprose the M&?n, uhclouded, broad, and bright, In all the beauty of a' Summer's night. Heedless of men, alike she seems to move O'erfiglds Of carnage, or the peaceful grove, The dread pursuit of foes; or harmless scenes of Io?e." ......... ?Google