Lines Written On The Field Of Quatre Bras 1821 by Joanna Baillie Lyrics
SO bright the sun puts forth his glorious beams,
So fair the field beneath his lustre gleams,
So soft the south wind wanders o'er the corn,
While on its wing a thousand scents are borne,
So bright and fair, so peaceful and serene,
So soft and calm, and undisturb'd the scene,
It seems as if no storm had ever rose,
Or e'er could rise, to break its sweet repose.
But on this lovely spot when last I stood,
What was that field?--a theatre of blood!
The war-fiend here unfurl'd his baleful wing,
Here mock'd at pain, and smil'd at suffering:
Yelling with joy as each new victim bled,
Gloated his eye on hecatombs of dead;
Steep'd his foul pinions in a sea of gore,
And, drench'd with slaughter, still demanded more.
Yes, for the blue of yonder cloudless sky,
Above us hung a sulphurous canopy;
For murmuring rill, and carol of the bird,
Were whizzing shot and roaring cannon heard;--
Bristled the bay'net, gleam'd the deadly glaive,
Where thickest now the golden harvests wave;--
Where tender harebells wave in azure bloom,
Floated the pennon with the warrior's plume;
For rural echoes, or the wild bees' hum,
Bray'd the hoarse trumpet, roll'd the hollow drum;
And where yon meadow's turf most verdant is,
There fell the fiercest of our enemies.
They fell indeed!--but with them what a host
Of conqu'rors, comrades, brothers, friends, was lost!
What tears bedew'd the bodies of the brave,
As sanguine hands consign'd them to the grave;
What sobs burst forth as voices join'd in prayer,
Which but an hour before had join'd the battle there!
What manly bosoms heav'd with sorrow's sigh,
Which but an hour before throbb'd high in victory!
Alas! among the most deplored of those,
Who, wrapp'd in shrouds of glory, here repose,
Here , on this field, their valour nobly won,
Lies low in earth the gallant Barrington!
Oh! that my feeble hand could justly trace
His manly virtues, and his youthful grace;--
Oh! that my feeble pen could trace his eye,
Where sat enshrin'd, the soul of bravery;
Or shew his sword uplifted in the fight,
Dashing through foremost ranks with meteor light.--
Enough--surrounded by a heap of slain,
He sunk triumphant on the gory plain;
Sudden the silver cord of life was riven,
And the freed spirit sprang at once to Heaven!
So fair the field beneath his lustre gleams,
So soft the south wind wanders o'er the corn,
While on its wing a thousand scents are borne,
So bright and fair, so peaceful and serene,
So soft and calm, and undisturb'd the scene,
It seems as if no storm had ever rose,
Or e'er could rise, to break its sweet repose.
But on this lovely spot when last I stood,
What was that field?--a theatre of blood!
The war-fiend here unfurl'd his baleful wing,
Here mock'd at pain, and smil'd at suffering:
Yelling with joy as each new victim bled,
Gloated his eye on hecatombs of dead;
Steep'd his foul pinions in a sea of gore,
And, drench'd with slaughter, still demanded more.
Yes, for the blue of yonder cloudless sky,
Above us hung a sulphurous canopy;
For murmuring rill, and carol of the bird,
Were whizzing shot and roaring cannon heard;--
Bristled the bay'net, gleam'd the deadly glaive,
Where thickest now the golden harvests wave;--
Where tender harebells wave in azure bloom,
Floated the pennon with the warrior's plume;
For rural echoes, or the wild bees' hum,
Bray'd the hoarse trumpet, roll'd the hollow drum;
And where yon meadow's turf most verdant is,
There fell the fiercest of our enemies.
They fell indeed!--but with them what a host
Of conqu'rors, comrades, brothers, friends, was lost!
What tears bedew'd the bodies of the brave,
As sanguine hands consign'd them to the grave;
What sobs burst forth as voices join'd in prayer,
Which but an hour before had join'd the battle there!
What manly bosoms heav'd with sorrow's sigh,
Which but an hour before throbb'd high in victory!
Alas! among the most deplored of those,
Who, wrapp'd in shrouds of glory, here repose,
Here , on this field, their valour nobly won,
Lies low in earth the gallant Barrington!
Oh! that my feeble hand could justly trace
His manly virtues, and his youthful grace;--
Oh! that my feeble pen could trace his eye,
Where sat enshrin'd, the soul of bravery;
Or shew his sword uplifted in the fight,
Dashing through foremost ranks with meteor light.--
Enough--surrounded by a heap of slain,
He sunk triumphant on the gory plain;
Sudden the silver cord of life was riven,
And the freed spirit sprang at once to Heaven!