The Field of Waterloo, XI

On came the whirlwind—like the last But fiercest sweep of tempest-blast— On came the whirlwind—steel-gleams broke Like lightning through the rolling smoke; The war was waked anew, Three hundred cannon-mouths roared loud, And from their throats, with flash and cloud, Their showers of iron threw. Beneath their fire, in full career, Rushed on the ponderous cuirassier, The lancer couched his ruthless spear, And hurrying as to havoc near, The cohorts’ eagles flew. In one dark torrent, broad and strong, The advancing onset rolled along, Forth harbingered by fierce acclaim, That, from the shroud of smoke and flame, Pealed wildly the imperial name.