Читать книгу Macmillan's Reading Books. Book V - Unknown - Страница 30

       There was a sound of revelry by night,

       And Belgium's capital had gathered then

       Her Beauty and her Chivalry; and bright

       The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men;

       A thousand hearts beat happily; and when

       Music arose with its voluptuous swell,

       Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake again,

       And all went merry as a marriage-bell;—

       But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising

       knell!

       Did ye not hear it?—No; 'twas but the wind,

       Or the car rattling o'er the stony street:

       On with the dance! let joy be unconfined;

       No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet

       To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet—

       But hark!—That heavy sound breaks in once more,

       As if the clouds its echo would repeat;

       And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before!

       Arm! arm! it is—it is—the cannon's opening roar!

       Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,

       And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress,

       And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago

       Blush'd at the praise of their own loveliness:

       And there were sudden partings, such as press

       The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs

       Which ne'er might be repeated; who could guess

       If ever more should meet those mutual eyes,

       Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise?

       And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed,

       The mustering squadron, and the clattering car,

       Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,

       And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;

       And the deep thunder peal on peal afar;

       And near, the beat of the alarming drum

       Roused up the soldier ere the morning-star;

       While throng'd the citizens, with terror dumb,

       Or whispering, with white lips,—"The foe! they come!

       they come!"

       And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves,

       Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass,

       Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves,

       Over the unreturning brave,—alas!

       Ere evening to be trodden like the grass,

       Which now beneath them, but above shall grow

       In its next verdure; when this fiery mass

       Of living valour, rolling on the foe

       And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low!

       Last noon beheld them full of lusty life,

       Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay,

       The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife,

       The morn the marshalling in arms,—the day

       Battle's magnificently stern array!

       The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent

       The earth is cover'd thick with other clay,

       Which her own clay shall cover—heap'd and pent,

       Rider and horse,—friend, foe,—in one red burial blent!