350 WATERLOO. And darkest there, in dreadful might serene, Frowning like Death, are Brunswick's warriors seen; Whose dauntless bands, in memory of their chief, Bear the sad hue of undissembling grief; Yet seems it now no soft regret to shew, But black revenge, and hate more stern than woe. Where La Haye Sainte extends her shatter'd walls, Faithful in death the Hanoverian falls. Still rolls the dread artillery along, Pours its loud peal, and thins th' embattled throng. Still Gallia chafes, still Albion scorns to yield, And falling numbers darken all the field. See, see! what blaze shoots upwards from the vale? What dark smoke soars where war-clouds cannot sail? What deaf'ning thunders, what terrific jar Swells with new horrors the loud voice of war? As bursts from Etna's womb the fiery birth, Towers to the sky, and shakes th' affrighted earth. "Tis the wide ravage of th' infernal shell! Alas! on Britain's bravest band it fell; Where Hougoumont's beleaguer'd towers aspire, Moated with blood, and canopied with fire. But dare not look within! oh close the ear. Against those shrieks 'twere agony to hear!
