Page:Poems By Chauncy Hare Townshend.djvu/380

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WATERLOO.
Now her pale lamp she holds o'er Slaughter's hand,Guides the sure blow, and points the vengeful brand.Onward they rush, 'till the reflected beamQuivers on Sambre's gently-gliding stream.Ah, gentle now no more! The broken waveFlashes above the soldier's wat'ry grave.The stifled groan, the frequent plunge declareThat foemen slay, and warriors perish there.
But turn your eyes, where spreads the tranquil lightO'er the wide plain, where rag'd the desperate fight,Death's banquet-room, where wildly mingled lie The wrecks of his tremendous revelry.The pale ray gleams on many a paler cheek,Distain'd alone by slaughter's crimson streak;And oft the glist'ning radiance, mildly wan,Falls on a face too beautiful for man;While from the riven helm escap'd have roll'dDark braided tresses, or dishevell'd gold.'Tis Gallia's maid, who by her warrior's sideIn danger triumph'd, and devoted died.
O woman, with thy grace what strength combines!Faithful as ivy to the shaft it twines,Which closer still in ruin clasps it round,And gives in turn the kind support it found!
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