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Poem by Bernard Barton


The Field of Waterloo


Pour your tears wild and free - balm best and holiest!
Fallen is the lofty tree, low as the lowliest;
Rent is the eagle's plume, towering victorious,
Read, on the hero's tomb, the end of the glorious.

Lean on that shivered spear - it threatens no longer,
Snapt like its high compeer, the willow is the stronger;
See, on the dinted brand, the bright day beam flashes,
If thine be the soul, to stand and number its gashes.

Press not that hallowed mould, in darkness enshrouded,
Ashes, but scarcely cold, beneath it are crowded;
Thy feet, o'er some noble heart, may stumble unheeding -
O'er thy familiar friend, perchance may be treading.

O ye were scattered fast, sons of morning!
Triumphs, but seen and past, your proud brows adorning,
After such mortal toil to slumber so soundly,
Can aught, to the heart of man, speak so profoundly?



Bernard Barton


Bernard Barton's other poems:
  1. To the Owl
  2. Which Things are a Shadow
  3. A Colloquy with Myself
  4. A Dream
  5. Lamp of Our Feet


Poems of the other poets with the same name:

  • Walter Scott The Field of Waterloo ("Fair Brussels, thou art far behind")

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