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XXIII. Within a window’d niche of that high hall Sate 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, () Androused the vengeance blood alone could quell: He rush'd into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell.(?)

XXIV. 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 Blush'd at the praise of their own loveliness; And there were sudden partings, such as press The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs Which ne'er might be repeated; who could guess If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise!

Duchess of Richmond at Brussels, was first corrected on authority, in the “History of Napoleon Buonaparte,” which forms a portion of the “Family Library.” The Duke had received intelligence of Napoleon's decisive operations, and it was intended to put off the ball; but, on reflection, it seemed highly important that the people of Brussels should be kept in ignorance as to the course of events, and the Duke not only desired that the ball should proceed, but the general officers received his commands to appear at it—each taking care to quit the apartment as quietly as possible at ten o'clock, and proceed to join his respective division en route. – E.] (1) [The father of the Duke of Brunswick, who fell at Quatre-bras, rereived his death-wound at Jena. – E.] (2) [This stanza is very grand, even from its total unadornment. It 1s only a versification of the common narratives: but here may well be applied a position of Johnson, that “where truth is sufficient to fill the mind, fiction is worse than useless.”—SIR. E. BRYdges.]

XXV. 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!” XXVI. Andwildandhigh 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, [ears! And Evan's, Donald's()famerings in each clansman's XXVII. [leaves, And Ardennes(?) waves above them her green 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 like the grass Which now beneath them, but above shall grow In its next verdure, when this fiery mass Of living valour, rolling on the foe '[low. And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and

(1) Sir Evan Cameron, and his descendant Donald, the “gentle Lochiel” of the “forty-five.” (2) The wood of Soignies is supposed to be a remnant of the forest of

xxv III. Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay, The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife, The morn the marshalling in arms, – the day Battle's magnificently-stern array! The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent The earth is cover'd thick with other clay, Which her own clay shall cover, heap'd and pent,

Rider and horse, -friend, foe, – in one red burial

blent! (!) -

Their praise is hymn’d by loftier harps than mine;
Yet one I would select from that proud throng,
Partly because they blend me with his line,
And partly that I did his sire some wrong, (*)
And partly that bright names will hallow song;
And his was of the bravest, and when shower'd
The death-bolts deadliest the thinn'd files along,
Even where the thickest of war's tempest lower'd,

They reach'd no nobler breast than thine, young,

gallant Howards

Ardennes, famous in Boiardo's Orlando, and immortal in Shakspeare's “As you like it.” It is also celebrated in Tacitus as being the spot of successful defence by the Germans against the Roman encroachments. I have ventured to adopt the name connected with nobler associations than those of mere slaughter.

(1) [Childe Harold, though he shuns to celebrate the victory of Waterloo, gives us here a most beautiful description of the evening which preceded the battle of Quatre Bras, the alarm which called out the troops, and the hurry and confusion which preceded their march. I am not sure that any verses in our language surpass, in vigour and in feeling, this most beautiful description. —SIR Walter Scott.]

(2) [See note,to English Bards and Scotch Reviewers, ante, Vol. WIL p.267.— E.]


XXX. There have been tearsand breaking hearts for thee, And mine were nothing, had I such to give; But when I stood beneath the fresh green tree, Which living waves where thou didst cease to live, And saw around me the wide field revive With fruits and fertile promise, and the Spring Come forth her work of gladness to contrive, With all her reckless birds upon the wing, I turn'd from all she brought to those she could not

bring. (1)

I turn'd to thee, to thousands, of whom each And one as all a ghastly gap did make In his own kind and kindred, whom to teach Forgetfulness were mercy for their sake; The Archangel's trump, not Glory's, must awake Those whom they thirst for; though the sound of Fame - May for a moment soothe, it cannot slake The fever of vain longing, and the name So honour'd but assumes a stronger, bitterer claim.

(1) My guide from Mont St. Jean over the field seemed intelligent and accurate. The place where Major Howard fell was not far from two tall and solitary trees (there was a third cut down, or shivered in the battle), which stand a few yards from each other at a pathway's side. Beneath these he died and was buried. The body has since been removed to England. A small hollow for the present marks where it lay, but will probably soon be esfaced; the plough has been upon it, and the grain is...— After pointing out the different spots where Picton and other gallant men had perished; the guide said, “Here Major Howard lay : I was near him when wounded.” I told him my relationship, and he seemed then still more anxious to point out the particular spot and circumstances. The place is one of the most marked in the field, from the peculiarity of the two trees above mentioned. I went on horseback twice over the field, comparing it with my recollection

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They mourn, but smile at length; and, smiling,
mourn :
The tree will wither long before it fall;
The hull drives on, though mast and sail be torn;
The roof-tree sinks, but moulders on the hall
In massy hoariness; the ruin’d wall
Stands when its wind-worn battlements are gone;
The bars survive the captive they enthral; [sun;
The day drags through though storms keep out the
And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly live on:

Even as a broken mirror, which the glass
In every fragment multiplies; and makes
A thousand images of one that was,
The same, and still the more, the more it breaks;
And thus the heart will do which not forsakes,
Living in shatter'd guise, and still, and cold,
And bloodless, with its sleepless sorrow aches,
Yet withers on till all without is old,
Showing no visible sign, for such things are untold. ()

of similar scenes. As a plain, Waterloo seems marked out for the scene of
some great action, though this may be mere imagination: I have viewed
with attention those of Platea, Troy, Mantinea, Leuctra, Chaeromea, and
Marathon; and the field around Mont St. Jean and Hougoumont appears
to want little but a better cause, and that undefinable but impressive halo
which the lapse of ages throws around a celebrated spot, to vie in interest
with any or all of these, except, perhaps, the last mentioned.
(1) [“There is a richness and energy in this passage, which is peculiar to
Lord Byron, among all modern poets, a throng of glowing images, poured
forth at once, with a facility and profusion, which must appear mere waste-
fulness to more economical writers, and a certain negligence and harshness
of diction, which can belong only to an author who is oppressed with the
exuberance and rapidity of his conceptions.”—Jeffrey.]

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