« ՆախորդըՇարունակել »
There's more in one soft word of thine,
Than in the world's defied rebuke.
7. Thou stood'st, as stands a lovely tree,
That still unbroke, though gently bent, Still waves with fond fidelity
Its boughs above a monument.
The winds might rend—the skies might pour,
But there thou wert-and still wouldst be Devoted in the stormiest hour
To shed thy weeping leaves o'er me.
But thou and thine shall know no blight,
Whatever fate on me may fall ; For heaven in sunshine will requite
The kind and thee the most of all.
Then let the ties of baffled love
Be broken-thine will never break; Thy heart can feel—but will not move ;
Thy soul, though soft, will never shake.
And these, when all was lost beside,
Were found and still are fix'd in thee And bearing still a breast so tried,
Earth is no desert-ev'n to me.
We do not curse thee, Waterloo !
Never yet was heard such thunder
With that youthful chief competed ?
Who could boast o'er France defeated,
And thou too of the snow-white plume! Whose realm refused thee ev'n a tomb;(7)
Better hadst thou still been leading
On thy war-horse through the ranks,
Like a stream which burst its banks, While helmets cleft, and sabres clashing, Shone and shiver'd fast around thee Of the fate at last which found thee: Was that haughty plume laid low By a slave's dishonest blow ? Once—as the Moon sways o'er the tide, It roll'd in air, the warrior's guide; Through the smoke-created night Of the black and sulphurous fight, The soldier raised his seeking eye To catch that crest's ascendancy, And, as it onward rolling rose, So moved his heart upon our foes. There, where death's brief pang was quickest, And the battle's wreck lay thickest, Strew'd beneath the advancing banner
Of the eagle's burning crest—
Who could then her wing arrest
While the broken line enlarging
Fell, or fled along the plain ; There be sure was Murat charging!
There he ne'er shall charge again!
O’er glories gone the invaders march,