Look forth, once more, with soften’d heart,
Ere from the field of fame we part;
Triumph and Sorrow border near,
And joy oft melts into a tear.
Alas! what links of love that morn
Has War’s rude hand asunder torn!
For ne’er was field so sternly fought,
And ne’er was conquest dearer bought.
Here piled in common slaughter sleep
Those whom affection long shall weep;
Here rests the sire, that ne’er shall strain
His orphans to his heart again;
The son, whom, on his native shore,
The parent’s voice shall bless no more;
The bridegroom, who has hardly press’d
His blushing consort to his breast;
The husband, whom through many a year
Long love and mutual faith endear.
Thou can’st not name one tender tie
But here dissolved its reliques lie!
O when thou see’st some mourner’s veil,
Shroud her thin form and visage pale,
Or mark’st the Matron’s bursting tears
Stream when the stricken drum she hears;
Or see’st how manlier grief, suppress’d,
Is labouring in a father’s breast,--
With no enquiry vain pursue
The cause, but think on Waterloo!