XIV. · Section 2

XIV.

Lo! o’er the Monarch’s cheek, a gladd’ning ray Danc’d in his eye, and bad the smile to play, Where on the right his fav’rite legion stands, The imperial guards, those ever-dauntless bands; Swift in the midst his arm he wav’d on high, “On, soldiers on, to conquer, or to die!” Then, where the bravest of the British force, 300 He leads the way, and points their angry course; As when the stormy waves are o’er the deep, With hope of glory on that legion sweep. E’en their brave enemies hung back, and saw Their stern battalions with admiring awe. That man, to whom contending nations bow’d, Whose iron sceptre half a world allow’d-- Whose rapid fortunes urg’d the wheels of Fate-- Whose prosp’rous victories seem’d of endless date, Now shapes his way, and fires his daring band, 310 With Vengeance’ torch terrific in his hand; That band, in mighty deeds of arms renown’d, With valour arm’d, as yet with victory crown’d,-- The sons of conquest, and the flow’r of France, Who fill’d all Europe with alarms, advance.