When the chain'd Eagle 'scaped from Elba's shore, And Europe's levies rose in arms once more, Fast concentrating, from afar and near,
Their forces on the Belgian frontier,
In Paget's corps-a candidate for fame
From Albion's white-cliff'd coasts, young Gerald came,
(A gallant youth, sprung from a line of peers;
In Eton's College-Rolls his name appears ;)
At Mars' proud Shrine, to pay his willing vows,
To raise the honours of his noble House,
To gild his maiden sword with hostile gore,
And graduate in military lore.
His quarters, ere the last decisive fray,
Near to the ancient merchant's mansion lay.
Kind was the greeting that the old man gave,
For aye his home was open to the brave;
And soft the blush that sate on Helen's cheek,
That meant the welcome that she did not speak.
-As some coy violet meets the traveller's gaze,
When Spring's warm breeze o'er mead and woodland plays,
Arrests his steps, and courts him to inhale
Its fragrant breath, that floats upon the gale,
And, if unsated with the scent and hue,
Tempts him perchance to stoop, and gather too,—
So that sweet Form of innocence and truth
Woke the affection of the ardent youth:
He look'd and loved-what further need be said?
He wooed and won the modest Flemish Maid!
Bright was the day, when, at the altar-side,
Young Gerald wedded his affianced bride:
Arrayed in white, the lovely virgin trode
O'er heaps of roses that half barred her road;
The priest a blessing on their heads invokes-
In curling wreaths, the cloud of incense smokes-
And, through the arches of the chapel dim,
Ascends the solemn hymenæal hymn.
The rite performed-affixed Religion's seal-
And hearty wishes proffered for their weal—
The nuptial board is spread; and many a guest,
Invited, hastens to the sumptuous feast.
Some fears, howe'er, the bridegroom's joy alloy'd:
The match might gall his father's feudal pride-
Who brooked not trade, and scrupled not to rail
At unions with "mean cits and low canaille."
Sinister rumours were afloat, beside,
That Ney was pressing on, with daring stride-
Already Prussia's1 outposts were assail'd-
Old Blucher's wary generalship had fail’d—
And Buonaparte's 2 manœuvres, near Sombrief,
Had proved too rapid for the veteran Chief.
The hour approach'd, the Youth must join his corps,
And they must part-perchance to meet no more!
(2) The skirmishes with the Prussians, previous to the general engagement near Sombrief, on the 16th June, 1815.
With anxious sympathetic glance, the Fair
Had mark'd, unseen, his thoughtful, absent air,
And, quitting soon the festive banquet, wanders
In pensive mood where Senne in state meanders.
It was a lovely eve-the summer air Breathed balm—an anodyne to mortal care— Young Nature wore the emerald robe of JuneIn cloudless lustre, shone the crescent moonThe yellow rays she flings serenely quiver On spire and dome, on meadow, corn-field, riverThe groves of masts, like dark inverted woods, Reflected, glimmer in the umber'd floodsWhile thousand twinkling stars aloft are seen, Like satellites, ranged round Night's peerless Queen. How much of beauty Earth retains, to tell What Earth must once have been-before Man fell Oh! What a contrast shall yon orb behold Ere her diurnal course again be told— And, ere her waxing horns be fill'd once more, What devastation shall deface yon shore! How shall the fairy landscape fade awayChanged to a scene of ruin and dismay! E'en now the work of havoc is begun— And, in the distance, peals the signal-gun!
A lady kneels beside a hawthorn bush-
A sound of waters near, with gurgling gush-
In her superb contour of form and face
And chasten'd air, a half celestial grace-
A grace, that seem'd with frailty untainted,
As Guido's magic pencil never painted-
Her auburn locks, by Zephyr fanned, touch lightly
Her shoulders fair, and bosom-heaving slightly-
A costly bridal robe and scarf she wears—
Her dress is gay-her eyelids steep'd in tears!
But, for those drops-(that softness feminine!)-
Such her ethereal mould and mien divine,
So rapt so holy, in yon silver beam-
She might a ministering Seraph seem,
Despatch'd in pity, from the starry sky,
To waft some dying saint to realms on high!
Her in heaven-her white hands clasped in prayer-
eye
Scarce whisper'd orisons ascend in air-
"O God of battles! Shield my Love!" she cries:-
The voice is hush'd-the breeze, above her sighs :-
Oh! could she cast his horoscope, and see
The natal star that rules his destiny,
And pierce, with prescient ken, the dark unknown,
That shrouds his fate-so blended with her own!
On the blue vault her gaze intently lingers,
Half dimm'd with tears, and her slight mantling fingers:
A dull black cloud just then lowered in the West —
And ominous forebodings fill'd her breast.
The scene is changed. Within yon stately dome
A thousand flambeaux light a gorgeous room—
(Without, behold the bustle—the dense row
Of carriages before the portico-
What crowds besiege the colonnade—the doors-
The arch'd piazzas, and long corridors!)
The guests pour in-high ladies-warriors-peers:
With epaulettes-regimentals-chandeliers-
With cloth of gold-bright eyes-and diamonds' rays,
The proud saloon is one bewildering blaze!
Voluptuous music swells in concord sweet-
In airy maze, responsive footsteps beat-
There, Valour bends at radiant Beauty's shrine—
There, Brussels' maids and Britain's1 heroes shine:
And, 'mid the concourse of the Brave and Fair,
Appears a lately wedded youthful pair.—
Hark! 'Twas the rushing blast without-but no!
The night is tranquil, and the wind is low-
On with the pageantry. But hark! again
A hollow noise-'tis nearer and more plain-
So plain, that none can now mistake it more-
It is the cannon's loud and awful roar!
To some, alas! within that spacious room,
The sudden portent of impending doom!
Ay! that hoarse sound-stern Fate's prelusive Bell
(1) The Duke of Wellington, and many other British Officers, were at a Ball, in Brussels, on the night of the 15th June, 1815, when the distant roar of artillery indicated the sudden advance of the French.
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