But when the freshening breezes broke
A chasm in the volumed smoke,
Busy and black was seen to wave
The iron harvest of the field,--
That harvest, which, in slaughter till’d,
Is gathered in the grave:--
And now before their mutual fires
They yield, and now advance;
And now ’tis Britain that retires,
And now the line of France:
They struggle long with changeful fate;
And all the battle’s various cries,
Now depress’d and now elate,
In mingled clamours rise;
Till France at length before the weight
Of British onset flies:
‘Forward,’ the fiery victors shout,
‘Forward, the enemy’s in rout,
Pursue him and he dies!’