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?