LAST CHARGE OF THE FRENCH AT

WATERLOO.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

ON came the whirlwind-like the last
But fiercest sweep of tempest-blast-
On came the whirlwind-steel-gleams broke
Like lightning through the rolling smoke;
The war was waked anew,

Three hundred cannon-mouths roar'd loud,
And from their throats, with flash and cloud,
Their showers of iron threw.
Beneath their fire, in full career,
Rush'd on the ponderous cuirassier,
The lancer couch'd his ruthless spear,
And hurrying as to havoc near,
The cohorts' eagles flew.

In one dark torrent, broad and strong,
The advancing onset roll'd along,
Forth harbinger'd by fierce acclaim,
That, from the cloud of smoke and flame,
Peal'd wildly the imperial name!

But on the British heart were lost
The terrors of the charging host;
For not an eye the storm that view'd
Changed its proud glance of fórtitude;
Nor was one forward footstep stay'd,
As dropp'd the dying and the dead.
Fast as their ranks the thunders tear,
Fast they renew'd each serried square;
And on the wounded and the slain
Closed their diminish'd files again,

Till from their line scarce spears' lengths three,
Emerging from the smoke they see
Helmet, and plume, and panoply,
Then waked their fire at once,

YOUTH.

Each musketeer's revolving knell,
As fast, as regularly fell

As when they practise to display
Their discipline on festal day.

Then down went helm and lance,
Down were the eagle-banners sent,
Down reeling steeds and riders went,
Corslets were pierced, and

pennons rent;
And to augment the fray,

Wheel'd full against their staggering flanks,
The English horsemen's foaming ranks
Forced their resistless way.

Then to the musket-knell succeeds

The clash of swords-the neigh of steeds-
As plies the smith his clanging trade,
Against the cuirass rang the blade;
And while amid their close array
The well-served cannon rent their way,
And while amid their scatter'd band
Raged the fierce rider's bloody brand,
Recoil'd in common rout and fear
Lancer and guard and cuirassier,
Horsemen and foot, a mingled host!
Their leaders fall'n, their standards lost.

137

YOUTHI.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

WOE to the youth whom fancy gains,
Winning from Reason's hand the reins.
Pity and woe! for such a mind
Is soft, contemplative, and kind;
And woe to those who train such youth,
And spare to press the rights of truth,
The mind to strengthen and anneal
While on the stithy glows the steel!

Oh, teach him, while your lessons last,
To judge the present by the past;
Remind him of each wish pursued,
How rich it glow'd with promised good
Remind him of each wish enjoy'd,
How soon his hopes possession cloy'd;
Tell him we play unequal game
Whene'er we shoot by Fancy's aim;
And, where he strip him for her race,
Show the conditions of the chase.
Two sisters by the goal are set,
Cold Disappointment and Regret:
One disenchants the winner's eyes,
And strips of all its worth the prize;
While one augments its gaudy show,
More to entrance the loser's woe;
The victor sees his faery gold

Transform'd, when won, to drossy mould;
But still the vanquish'd mourns his loss,
And rues as gold that glittering dross.

THE DESERTED VILLAGE.

OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

SWEET Auburn! loveliest village of the plain,
Where health and plenty cheer'd the labouring swain,
Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid,
And parting summer's lingering blooms delay'd:
Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease,

Seats of my youth, when every sport could pleasc,
How often have I loiter'd o'er thy green,

Where humble happiness endear'd each scene!
How often have I paused on every charm,
The shelter'd cot, the cultivated farm,

The never-failing brook, the busy mill,

The decent church that topp'd the neighbouring hill, The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade,

For talking age and whispering lovers made!

THE DESERTED VILLAGE.

139

How often have I bless'd the coming day,
When toil remitting lent its turn to play,
And all the village train, from labour free,
Led up their sports beneath the spreading treo;
While many a pastime circled in the shade,
The young contending as the old survey'd ;
And many a gambol frolick'd o'er the ground,
And sleights of art and feats of strength went round,
And still, as each repeated pleasure tired,
Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired;
The dancing pair that simply sought renown,
By holding out to tire each other down;
The swain, mistrustless of his smutted face,
While secret laughter titter'd round the place,
The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love,

The matron's glance that would those looks reprove. These were thy charms, sweet village! sports like these,

With sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please;
These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed,
These were thy charms-but all these charms are fled!
Sweet smiling village! loveliest of the lawn,
Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn ;
Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen,
And desolation saddens all thy green!
One only master grasps the whole domain,
And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain;
No more thy glassy brook reflects the day,
But, choked with sedges, works its weedy way
Along thy glades a solitary guest,
The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest;
Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies,
And tires their echoes with unvaried cries.
Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all,
And the long grass o'ertops the mouldering wall;
And, trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand,
Far, far away, thy children leave the land.

Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey,
Where wealth accumulates, and men decay:

Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade;
A breath can make them, as a breath has made ;
But a bold peasantry, their country's pride,
When once destroy'd, can never be supplied.

THE VILLAGE SCHOOLMASTER.
OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

BESIDE yon straggling fence that skirts the way
With blossomed furze unprofitably gay
There, in his noisy mansion skilled to rule,
The village master taught his little school;
A man severe he was, and stern to view;
I knew him well, and every truant knew.
Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace
The day's disasters in his morning's face;
Full well they laughed with counterfeited glee
At all his jokes, for many a joke had he;
Full well the busy whisper circling round,
Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned:
Yet he was kind; or if severe in aught,
The love he bore to learning was in fault.
The village all declared how much he knew;
'Twas certain he could write, and cipher too;
Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage ;
And even the story ran that he could gauge;
In arguing, too, the parson owned his skill,
For even though vanquished he could argue still;
While words of learned length and thundering sound
Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around;
And still they gazed, and still the wonder grow,
That one small head could carry all he knew.
But past is all his fame: the very spot
Where many a time he triumphed, is forgot.