The Field of Waterloo, VII

Far other harvest-home and feast, Than claims the boor from scythe released, On these scorched fields were known! Death hovered o’er the maddening rout, And, in the thrilling battle-shout, Sent for the bloody banquet out A summons of his own. Through rolling smoke the Demon’s eye Could well each destined guest espy, Well could his ear in ecstasy Distinguish every tone That filled the chorus of the fray— From cannon-roar and trumpet-bray, From charging squadrons’ wild hurra, From the wild clang that marked their way,— Down to the dying groan, And the last sob of life’s decay, When breath was all but flown.