Ode from the French

We do not curse thee, Waterloo!Though Freedom's blood thy plain bedew;There 'twas shed, but is not sunk--Rising from each gory trunk,Like the water-spout from ocean,With a strong and growing motion--It soars, and mingles in the air,With that of lost La Bedoyere--With that of him whose honoured graveContains the "bravest of the brave."A crimson cloud it spreads and glows,But shall return to whence it rose;When 'tis full 'twill burst asunder--Never yet was heard such thunderAs then shall shake the world with wonder--Never yet was seen such lightningAs o'er heaven shall then be bright'ning!Like the Wormwood Star foretoldBy the sainted Seer of old,Show'ring down a fiery flood,Turning rivers into blood.

The Chief has fallen, but not by you,Vanquishers of Waterloo!When the soldier citizenSwayed not o'er his fellow-men--Save in deeds that led them onWhere Glory smiled on Freedom's son--Who, of all the despots banded,With that youthful chief competed?Who could boast o'er France defeated,Till lone Tyranny commanded?Till, goaded by Ambition's sting,The Hero sunk into the King?Then he fell:--so perish all,Who would men by man enthral!

And thou, too, of the snow-white plume!Whose realm refused thee ev'n a tomb;Better hadst thou still been leadingFrance o'er hosts of hirelings bleeding,Than sold thyself to death and shameFor a meanly royal name;Such as he of Naples wears,Who thy blood-bought title bears.Little didst thou deem, when dashingOn thy war-horse through the ranks.Like a stream which burst its banks,While helmets cleft, and sabres clashing,Shone and shivered fast around thee--Of the fate at last which found thee:Was that haughty plume laid lowBy a slave's dishonest blow?Once--as the Moon sways o'er the tide,It rolled in air, the warrior's guide;Through the smoke-created nightOf the black and sulphurous fight,The soldier raised his seeking eyeTo catch that crest's ascendancy,--And, as it onward rolling rose,So moved his heart upon our foes.There, where death's brief pang was quickest,And the battle's wreck lay thickest,Strewed beneath the advancing bannerOf the eagle's burning crest--(There with thunder-clouds to fan her,Who could then her wing arrest--Victory beaming from her breast?)While the broken line enlargingFell, or fled along the plain;There be sure was Murat charging!There he ne'er shall charge again!

O'er glories gone the invaders march,Weeps Triumph o'er each levelled arch--But let Freedom rejoice,With her heart in her voice;But, her hand on her sword,Doubly shall she be adored;France hath twice too well been taughtThe "moral lesson" dearly bought--Her safety sits not on a throne,With Capet or Napoleon!But in equal rights and laws,Hearts and hands in one great cause--Freedom, such as God hath givenUnto all beneath his heaven,With their breath, and from their birth,Though guilt would sweep it from the earth;With a fierce and lavish handScattering nations' wealth like sand;Pouring nations' blood like water,In imperial seas of slaughter!

But the heart and the mind,And the voice of mankind,Shall arise in communion--And who shall resist that proud union?The time is past when swords subdued--Man may die--the soul's renewed:Even in this low world of careFreedom ne'er shall want an heir;Millions breathe but to inheritHer for ever bounding spirit--When once more her hosts assemble,Tyrants shall believe and tremble--Smile they at this idle threat?Crimson tears will follow yet.