The Field of Waterloo, IX

Pale Brussels! then what thoughts were thine, When ceaseless from the distant line Continued thunders came! Each burgher held his breath, to hear These forerunners of havoc near, Of rapine and of flame. What ghastly sights were thine to meet, When rolling through thy stately street, The wounded showed their mangled plight In token of the unfinished fight, And from each anguish-laden wain The blood-drops laid thy dust like rain! How often in the distant drum Heard’st thou the fell Invader come, While Ruin, shouting to his band, Shook high her torch and gory brand!— Cheer thee, fair City! From yon stand, Impatient, still his outstretched hand Points to his prey in vain, While maddening in his eager mood, And all unwont to be withstood, He fires the fight again.