Page:Poems By Chauncy Hare Townshend.djvu/367

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WATERLOO.
343
The grove is won!—Oh, hasten, ere too late,On the fierce foe to close yon guardian gate!But who shall dare the danger? Who roll backIts ponderous weight against the mad attack?Then burst, in all its native lightning, forthTh' indignant spirit of the hardy North.See'st thou yon Highland Chief, whose gleaming brand.Has met so oft the foeman hand to hand?Forward he springs! exulting shouts proclaimHis arm's strong triumph, and Macdonnel's name.[1]Vainly without still chafes the frantic Gaul;The storm of war turns harmless from the wall.As oft the bold tornado of the WestHowls round the dwelling of the Indian's rest.Still with new fury rocks the solid base,And shakes the fabric it can ne'er displace.
But fiercest, deadliest, in his swift career,Spurs his hot steed th' impetuous Cuirassier.In vain the sword those rivets may assail,And idly thence rebounds the iron hail.Destruction, hurtling in the cannon's bray,Sweeps the thinn'd ranks before their destin'd way:Onward they dart, beneath the battle-cloud,
  1. ↑ See Paul's Letters to his Kinsfolk.
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