XVIII. · Section 2

XVIII.

Where now is Gallia’s boast?--far, far around, 430 Their mangled corpses welter on the ground; Save, where a few of that tremendous band, In stern amaze, still make their wonted stand. But see, the Britons, with exulting joy, Bare their bright sabres, eager to destroy; And, breathing vengeance, sword in hand they go, To end the conquest of the wilder’d foe; They, lost to reason, and the mind’s control, Sunk in despair each energy of soul: Some instinctively fly--some idly stand, 440 Yet drop the useless weapon from the hand. So fell, in one promiscuous pile of dead, Proud Gallia’s glory, and all Europe’s dread!

Napoléon view’d, with piercing pangs, afar, The adverse fortunes of the fatal war; E’en his bright talents, and gigantic soul, Which soar’d ’bove mortals, and beyond control, Sunk in that hour--in that eventful day, When his lov’d troops by fate were swept away; Fain would he rush his raging form to throw 450 Before the progress of his conq’ring foe; But Bertrand, Drouët, on the Monarch hung, Melted to tears, and bath’d the knees they clung-- “Whither, great Sire, oh, whither would’st thou fly? And dost thou think that thou alone would’st die? Upon _thy_ life, unnumber’d lives await-- On thee, depends thy native Gallia’s fate. Think of thy safety, and if not thy own, That of thy country, and thy infant son. What, though to-day opposing Fortune low’rs, 460 To-morrow’s sun may yet behold her ours!” With words like these, they strive to soothe the chief, Soften his anger, and allay his grief. Mov’d by their prayers, that glorious chief resign’d The dreadful purpose of his mighty mind. Backwards one long, one lingering look he cast Tow’rds the red place his band had breath’d their last, Then pass’d his hand across his madd’ning brow-- “I follow, Bertrand, where you lead me now.”