Poems (Gifford)/A Holiday
A HOLIDAY.
A glorious August day, an English threeMingling with some of their own country folk,And some of other lands on Belgian soil,Intent on making most of holiday.So, merrily they climbed the many steps,And, panting, reached the summit of a moundHuge, bare, unique, and found a resting-placeBeneath the shadow of a giant form,A lion from French captured cannon cast,Meet trophy of an English victory.Thence gained they a wide, comprehensive viewOf gently undulating country,—fields of corn,Varied but slightly by long rows of treesAnd little groups of buildings here and there,But all around teemed with deep interestFor many a nation, and for England most.
For here, at Waterloo, some decades since,The flower of British forces, with alliesFriendly and true, gathered and put to routThe last of that grand army, that so longHad carried terror wheresoe'er it went.At length Napoleon's course was surely checked,The bold usurper's daring schemes were foiled,Conquered the conqueror of a continent,The troubler of all European peace,The bitter foe of England. He had risenBy genius, valour, resolution, strength,From dignity to dignity in France;But by ambition, pride, and tyrannyWas lured to degradation and defeat;And this the spot that saw his overthrow,When Europe gained new hope and breathed afresh.
And now a quaint, gaunt man, in gorgeous garb,Told (as each day he told) the far-famed taleOf that momentous, memorable dayOf dire defeat, and splendid victory, Of awful carnage, and resultant peace,Of happy revolutionary aims,And of bereavement in unnumbered homes.Glibly, but with grim earnestness he talked,And he had earnest listeners; yet his mien,His very earnestness engendered smiles,And still on every face was clearly writThat one word—"Holiday." If aught recalledThe dark, dark, solemn awfulness of war,Sad sights and sounds, the dismal moans and criesOf wounded, dying; the now-smiling sceneReeking with gore and full of ghastliness,Swift passed the troubled vision; scarce a sighOr quickened heart-beat seemed to be called forthBy casual reference to the sufferingSo keen, so real on that fateful day.Honour, and nought but honour, seemed it nowTo have it said, "He died at Waterloo."
Now points the old man round to various sites,And tells how, after recent desperate fight,And hard-won triumph, and brief, troubled rest,The English general, brave Wellington,"Mid burning heat, and frequent skirmishing,And raging tempest, led his trustful troopsTo a night's wet and cheerless bivouac,With scanty rations, on this chosen field.There, to the north, and stretching to the eastHe fixed his main post, upon Mont St. Jean,Dotting its front with squares of infantry,And hiding men behind its sheltering crest.There, to the south-west, in the chateau groundsOf Hougoumont were other thousands massed,And there, when morning's drizzle ceased, the FrenchBegan the sharp encounter, and throughoutMaintained fierce fight,—the gallant British forceAgainst superior numbers standing firm,Or swift recovering from a slight reverse.Straight to the south, on the Belle Alliance heights,'Mid trumpet clangour and the beat of drums,The French in thirteen columns were disposed, And, spreading between them and Mont St. Jean,Was open valley upon either sideOf the high road from Brussels to Charleroi;And, centrally conspicuous, there stoodBy the roadside a farm—La Haie Sainte—That in the fray endured such frequent chargeAnd varying fortune. To the right of French,To eastward, was the little wood, the roadWhence towards the close of day the Prussians cameWhen English energies were well-nigh spent,—There, Papelotte and Planchenois, their captured points.All day had warfare lasted; yet th'allies,Though valiantly, successfully they fought,Had but repelled from their well-chosen groundThe bold, aggressive French; but, when at lengthIn the south-eastern distance were descriedSigns of the long-expected Prussian aid,And when the foe, of conquest well assured,But irritated by such firm defence,Gathered his forces for a last attack,Then, at their reverenced commander's word,As, waving hat in air, he gave the sign,Th' impetuous but long-curbed British ranks,Full of high hope, and raising a glad cheer,Swept forward down the slopes of Mont St. Jean,And charged their way to speedy victory.Then fled the hero of so many fights,And from the field the battered residueOf his grand army was completely driven;Then fresher Prussian troops took up the chaseAnd pressed to southward the retreating host,Leaving the brave but weary conquerorsTo midnight rest upon the dead-strewn earth.
So ended the narration.
Merrily thenThe three descended to the lower ground,Entered the little house hard by, now famedFor the night-slumber of the Iron Duke, And for his chronicle of the eventThat sent such thrill of joy across the sea.And here was many a relic of the past,And present sweet refreshment; so they ateWhere Wellington had eaten, and they wroteWhere he had done, and chatted gaily on.
Forward to Hougoumont they hastened then,And with the quaint old man's quaint sister thereIn queerly blended languages they talked,In the courtvard where once such struggle ragedBut lazy-looking horses now turned in,And by the well that held three hundred slain,Where now the hens were pecking peacefully;Marked with serene composure the effectOf shot, and shell, and fire on chateau-walls,In the small chapel, and where'er they turned;And in the orchard, 'mid the verdant graves,They strolled at ease, and laughingly peered throughLoopholes in walls, for tragic onslaught made.Then went they on, in path circuitous,Where, on the glorious, awful battlefield,Masses of lovely cornflower grew in cornThat recent hail had flattened. Forward stillBy other noted spots and monumentsThey hurried on, until they reached againThe Lion Mound, and left to catch the trainThat bore them back to Brussels.