Page:Poems By Chauncy Hare Townshend.djvu/379

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WATERLOO.
355
Fresh, and unbreath'd, impetuous as the wave,
Greedy as wolves, relentless as the grave,
The Prussian comes, his sword in blood unsteep'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'er the host beneath.[1]
The Briton, bulwark'd by his rocky strand,
Ne'er saw thee blight the gardens of his land.
No injur'd wife, no murder'd offspring call
His soul to vengeance on the cruel Gaul:
But there are wrongs, too deep to be redrest,
That fret, and rankle in the Prussian's breast.
The cup of vengeance holds its mantling draught
Close to his lips,—and deep shall it be quaff'd!

But darkness yet that madd'ning flight may shroud.—
Oh, for a night of tempest, gloom, and cloud!
Uprose the Moon, unclouded, broad, and bright,
In all the beauty of a summer's night.
Heedless of men, alike she seems to move
O'er fields of carnage, or the peaceful grove,
The dread pursuit of foes, or harmless scenes of love.


  1. At the battle of Ligny, the French hoisted the black flag, which signified that no quarter would be given.