# The Elocutionist (1840-1850)/The field of Waterloo

Dated from examination of text and style.
THE FIELD OF WATERLOO.
Stop ;—for thy tread is on an Empire’s dust An earthquake’s spoil is sepulchred below! Is the spot marked with no colossal bust? Nor column trophied for triumphal show? None; but the moral’s truth tells simpler so. As the ground was before thus let it be.— How that red rain hath made the harvest grow; And is this all the world hath gained by thee, Thou first and last of fields—king-making Victory!
There was a sound of revelry by night, And Belgium’s capital had gather’d then ​Her beauty and her chivalry; and bright The lamps shone o’er fair women and brave men; A thousand hearts beat happily: and when Music arose with its voluptuous swell, Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again And all went merry as a marriage-bell;— But hush! hark; a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!
Did you not hear it ?—No; ’twas but the wind Or the car rattling o’er the stoney street; On with the dance! let joy be unconfined; No sleep till morn when youth and pleasure meet To chase the glowing hours, with flying feet. But hark! that heavy sound breaks in once more As if the clouds its echo would repeat: And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before! Arm! arm! it is!—it is the cannon’s opening roar!
Within a window’d niche of that high hall Sat Brunswick’s fated chieftain; he did hear That sound the first amidst the festival, And caught its tone with Death’s prophetic ear, And when they smiled because he deem’d it near, His heart more truly knew that peal too well, Which stretch’d his father on a bloody bier, And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell He rush’d into the field, and foremost, fighting, fell
Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness; And there was sudden partings, such as press The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs ​Which ne'er might be repeated: who could guess If evermore should meet those mutual eyes Since upon nights so sweet such awful morn should rise!
And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, And swiftly forming in the ranks of war; And the deep thunder, peal on peal, afar, And near, the beat of the alarming drum Roused up the soldier ere the morning star; While throng'd the citizens with terror dumb, Or whispering, with white lips—“the foe! they come! they come!”
And wild and high the 'Cameron's gathering' rose The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills
Have heard—and heard too have her Saxon foes; How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills, Savage and shrill! but with the breath which fills Their mountain pipe, so fill the mountaineers With the fierce native daring, which instils The stirring memory of a thousand years; And Evan's, Donald's fame, ring in each clansman's ears.
And Ardennes waves above them her green leaven Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass, Grieving—if aught inanimate e'er grieves— Over the unreturning brave,—alas! Ere evening to be trodden as the grass, ​Which now beneath them, hut above shall grow In its next verdure; when this fiery mass Of living valour, rolling on the foe, And burning with high hope, should moulder cold and low!
Lord Byron