Part I, Canto II: Brussels

Where might a gayer spectacle be found
Than Brussels offer'd on that festive night,
Her squares and palaces irradiate round
To welcome the imperial Moscovite,
Who now, the wrongs of Europe twice redress'd,
Came there a welcome and a glorious guest?

Her mile-long avenue with lamps was hung,
Innumerous, which diffused a light like day;
Where through the line of splendour, old and young
Paraded all in festival array;
While fiery barges, plying to and fro,
Illumined as they moved the liquid glass below.

By day with hurrying crowds the streets were throng'd,
To gain of this great Czar a passing sight;
And music, dance, and banqueting prolong d
The various work of pleasure through the night
You might have deem'd, to see that joyous town,
That wretchedness and pain were there unknown.

Yet three short months had scarcely pass'd away,
Since, shaken with the approaching battle's breath,
Her inmost chambers trembled with dismay;
And now within her walls, insatiate Death,
Devourer whom no harvest e'er can fill,
The gleanings of that field was gathering still.

Within those walls there linger'd at that hour
Many a brave soldier on the bed of pain,
Whom aid of human art should ne'er restore
To see his country and his friends again;
And many a victim of that fell debate
Whose life yet waver'd in the scales of fate.

Some I beheld, for whom the doubtful scale
Had to the side of life inclined at length;
Emaciate was their form, their features pale,
The limbs so vigorous late, bereft of strength;
And for their gay habiliments of yore,
The habit of the House of Pain they wore.

Some in the courts of that great hospital,
That they might taste the sun and open air,
Crawl'd out; or sate beneath the southern wall;
Or leaning in the gate, stood gazing there
In listless guise upon the passers by,
Whiling away the hours of slow recovery.

Others in waggons borne abroad I saw,
Albeit recovering, still a mournful sight:
Languid and helpless some were stretch'd on straw.
Some more advanced sustain'd themselves upright,
And with bold eye and careless front, methought,
Seem'd to set wounds and death again at nought

Well had it fared with these; nor went it ill
With those whom war had of a limb bereft,
Leaving the life untouch'd, that they had still
Enough for health as for existence left;
But some there were who lived to draw the breath
Of pain through hopeless years of lingering death.

Here might the hideous face of war be seen,
Stript of all pomp, adornment, and disguise;
It was a dismal spectacle I ween,
Such as might well to the beholders' eyes
Bring sudden tears, and make the pious mind
Grieve for the crimes and follies of mankind.

What had it been then in the recent days
Of that great triumph, when the open wound
Was festering, and along the crowded ways,
Hour after hour was heard the incessant sound
Of wheels, which o'er the rough and stony road
Convey'd their living agonising load!

Hearts little to the melting mood inclined
Grew sick to see their sufferings; and the thought
Still comes with horror to the shuddering mind
Of those sad days when Belgian ears were taught
The British soldier's cry, half groan, half prayer.
Breathed when his pain is more than he can bear.

Brave spirits, nobly had their part been done!
Brussels could show, where Senne's slow waters glide,
The cannon which their matchless valour won,
Proud trophies of the field, ranged side by side,
Where as they stood in Inoffensive row,
The solitary guard paced to and fro.

Unconscious instruments of human woe,
Some for their mark the royal lilies bore,
Fix'd there when Britain was the Bourbon's foe;
And some emboss'd in brazen letters wore
The sign of that abhorr'd misrule, which broke
The guilty nation for a Tyrant's yoke.

Others were stampt with that Usurper's name, . .
Recorders thus of many a change were they,
Their deadly work through every change the same;
Nor ever had they seen a bloodier day,
Than when as their late thunders roll'd around,
Brabant in all her cities felt the sound.

Then ceased their occupation. From the field
Of battle here in triumph were they brought;
Ribands and flowers and laurels half conceal'd
Their brazen mouths, so late with ruin fraught;
Women beheld them pass with joyful eyes,
And children clapt their hands and rent the air with cries.

Now idly on the banks of Senne they lay.
Like toys with which a child is pleased no more:
Only the British traveller bends his way
To see them on that unfrequented shore,
And as a mournful feeling blends with pride,
Remembers those who fought, and those who died.