The Field of Waterloo, XIV

But if revolves thy fainter thought On safety—howsoever bought,— Then turn thy fearful rein and ride, Though twice ten thousand men have died On this eventful day To gild the military fame Which thou, for life, in traffic tame Wilt barter thus away. Shall future ages tell this tale Of inconsistence faint and frail? And art thou He of Lodi’s bridge, Marengo’s field, and Wagram’s ridge! Or is thy soul like mountain-tide, That, swelled by winter storm and shower, Rolls down in turbulence of power, A torrent fierce and wide; Reft of these aids, a rill obscure, Shrinking unnoticed, mean and poor, Whose channel shows displayed The wrecks of its impetuous course, But not one symptom of the force By which these wrecks were made!