Where now is Gallia’s boast?--far, far around, 430 Their mangled corpses welter on the ground; Save, where a few of that tremendous band, In stern amaze, still make their wonted stand. But see, the Britons, with exulting joy, Bare their bright sabres, eager to destroy; And, breathing vengeance, sword in hand they go, To end the conquest of the wilder’d foe; They, lost to reason, and the mind’s control, Sunk in despair each energy of soul: Some instinctively fly--some idly stand, 440 Yet drop the useless weapon from the hand. So fell, in one promiscuous pile of dead, Proud Gallia’s glory, and all Europe’s dread!
Napoléon view’d, with piercing pangs, afar, The adverse fortunes of the fatal war; E’en his bright talents, and gigantic soul, Which soar’d ’bove mortals, and beyond control, Sunk in that hour--in that eventful day, When his lov’d troops by fate were swept away; Fain would he rush his raging form to throw 450 Before the progress of his conq’ring foe; But Bertrand, Drouët, on the Monarch hung, Melted to tears, and bath’d the knees they clung-- “Whither, great Sire, oh, whither would’st thou fly? And dost thou think that thou alone would’st die? Upon _thy_ life, unnumber’d lives await-- On thee, depends thy native Gallia’s fate. Think of thy safety, and if not thy own, That of thy country, and thy infant son. What, though to-day opposing Fortune low’rs, 460 To-morrow’s sun may yet behold her ours!” With words like these, they strive to soothe the chief, Soften his anger, and allay his grief. Mov’d by their prayers, that glorious chief resign’d The dreadful purpose of his mighty mind. Backwards one long, one lingering look he cast Tow’rds the red place his band had breath’d their last, Then pass’d his hand across his madd’ning brow-- “I follow, Bertrand, where you lead me now.”
Mean time fierce Blücher, with impetuous might, 470 Supports the war, and claims the equal fight; Hill’s conq’ring banners, midst the thickest war, Dripping red carnage, glitter’d from afar; His ruthless Prussians, dreadful Bulow roll’d, While Uxbridge shone the boldest of the bold; Exulting Fame, in shouting clamours calls, And Britain’s vengeance on Napoléon falls. But now the Gauls are mass’d in one vast throng, And Albion’s troops, collected, sweep along. On each vast squadron rush, each mighty band, 480 Now charge, collected, scymitar in hand. So from some rock the gushing torrents pour, Burst the weak banks, and overwhelm the shore: Their mighty streams in ev’ry quarter roll, And sweep away, whate’er their force control. What pen can tell each hero’s deathless name, Who spread destruction o’er the field of Fame. Let some sublimer bard’s illustrious verse, Their laurel’s number, and their deeds rehearse; 489 How Cooke, how Maitland, Packe, and Ferrier shone; How Ellis, Somerset, and Cairnes were known;-- How brave Fitzgerald, through the bloody fray, Spread ruin dark, and wond’ring wild dismay. With many a chief, whose ever-living name No voice can tell!--except the voice of Fame! Nor yet shalt thou, with well-earn’d laurels bright, Be sunk, O, C----t! in oblivious night, In that dread day thy crest refulgent shone, A youth in years, a vet’ran in renown; Sprung from a sire, who rear’d our nobler youth 500 To wisdom, virtue, learning, sense, and truth. Nor less thy brother’s fame, where Ganges pours His sacred waters through the Indian shores.