WATERLOO. This, like a wheel, but kindling as it goes, That, ev'n at rest, with native ardour glows. Oh, how contrasted is the vivid scene, Where not a pause for thought can intervene, With thee, sad Brussels, to thy fears resign'd, 347 Where thought grows madness in the o'er-wrought. mind! Less dread the hour, when, rous'd at peep of morn, From circling arms, Sons, Husbands, Friends were torn. And they, who staid, again rush'd forth to heart Once more the voice, most grateful to their ear; Taught by the nature of the heart to dwell So long-so fondly-on that word, "farewell!" And wish it still repeated o'er, and o'er, As if it had not reach'd the soul before. But now the breast, with fiercer, deadlier throe, Pants in the crisis of its joy, or woe: Links all it sees, with all it wildly feels, Deems every sound some oracle reveals, And strains each fever'd nerve, 'till all things seem The dark phantasma of a hideous dream. Time seems to stagnate o'er th' unvaried day In one broad blank of terror and dismay. Unheeded now the sabbath's solemn rites,* The battle of Waterloo was fought on a Sunday.
