The Field of Waterloo, V

So deem’st thou—so each mortal deems, Of that which is from that which seems:— But other harvest here Than that which peasant’s scythe demands, Was gathered in by sterner hands, With bayonet, blade, and spear. No vulgar crop was theirs to reap, No stinted harvest thin and cheap! Heroes before each fatal sweep Fell thick as ripened grain; And ere the darkening of the day, Piled high as autumn shocks, there lay The ghastly harvest of the fray, The corpses of the slain.