The Muses, still with freedom found,
Shall to thy happy coast repair: 
Blessed isle! with matchless beauty crowned,
And manly hearts to guard the fair: 
Rule, Britannia, rule the waves,
Britons never will be slaves!

THOMSON.

[Notes:  James Thomson, born 1700, died 1748.  He was educated for the Scotch ministry, but came to London, and commenced his career as a poet by the series of poems called the ‘Seasons,’ descriptive of scenes in nature.

The Muses, i.e., the Sciences and Arts, which flourish best where there are free institutions.]

* * * * *

       WATERLOO.

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!