Thou, too, whose deeds of fame renewed Bankrupt a nation’s gratitude, To thine own noble heart must owe More than the meed she can bestow. For not a people’s just acclaim, Not the full hail of Europe’s fame, Thy Prince’s smiles, the State’s decree, The ducal rank, the gartered knee, Not these such pure delight afford As that, when hanging up thy sword, Well may’st thou think, “This honest steel Was ever drawn for public weal; And, such was rightful Heaven’s decree, Ne’er sheathed unless with victory!”
Look forth, once more, with softened heart, Ere from the field of fame we part; Triumph and Sorrow border near, And joy oft melts into a tear. Alas! what links of love that morn Has War’s rude hand asunder torn! For ne’er was field so sternly fought, And ne’er was conquest dearer bought, Here piled in common slaughter sleep Those whom affection long shall weep Here rests the sire, that ne’er shall strain His orphans to his heart again; The son, whom, on his native shore, The parent’s voice shall bless no more; The bridegroom, who has hardly pressed His blushing consort to his breast; The husband, whom through many a year Long love and mutual faith endear. Thou canst not name one tender tie, But here dissolved its relics lie! Oh! when thou see’st some mourner’s veil Shroud her thin form and visage pale, Or mark’st the Matron’s bursting tears Stream when the stricken drum she hears; Or see’st how manlier grief, suppressed, Is labouring in a father’s breast,— With no inquiry vain pursue The cause, but think on Waterloo!
Period of honour as of woes, What bright careers ’twas thine to close!— Marked on thy roll of blood what names To Britain’s memory, and to Fame’s, Laid there their last immortal claims! Thou saw’st in seas of gore expire Redoubted PICTON’S soul of fire— Saw’st in the mingled carnage lie All that of PONSONBY could die— DE LANCEY change Love’s bridal-wreath For laurels from the hand of Death— Saw’st gallant MILLER’S failing eye Still bent where Albion’s banners fly, And CAMERON, in the shock of steel, Die like the offspring of Lochiel; And generous GORDON, ’mid the strife, Fall while he watched his leader’s life.— Ah! though her guardian angel’s shield Fenced Britain’s hero through the field. Fate not the less her power made known, Through his friends’ hearts to pierce his own!