The Complete Poetical Works. Томас Харди

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      I hid him deep in nodding rye and oat—

       His shroud green stalks and loam;

       His requiem the corn-blade’s husky note—

       And then I hastened home, . . .

      —Two armies writhe in coils of red and blue,

       And brass and iron clang

       From Goumont, past the front of Waterloo,

       To Pap’lotte and Smohain.

      The Guard Imperial wavered on the height;

       The Emperor’s face grew glum;

       “I sent,” he said, “to Grouchy yesternight,

       And yet he does not come!”

      ’Twas then, Good Father, that the French espied,

       Streaking the summer land,

       The men of Blücher. But the Emperor cried,

       “Grouchy is now at hand!”

      And meanwhile Vand’leur, Vivian, Maitland, Kempt,

       Met d’Erlon, Friant, Ney;

       But Grouchy—mis-sent, blamed, yet blame-exempt—

       Grouchy was far away.

      By even, slain or struck, Michel the strong,

       Bold Travers, Dnop, Delord,

       Smart Guyot, Reil-le, l’Heriter, Friant,

       Scattered that champaign o’er.

      Fallen likewise wronged Duhesme, and skilled Lobau

       Did that red sunset see;

       Colbert, Legros, Blancard! . . . And of the foe

       Picton and Ponsonby;

      With Gordon, Canning, Blackman, Ompteda,

       L’Estrange, Delancey, Packe,

       Grose, D’Oyly, Stables, Morice, Howard, Hay,

       Von Schwerin, Watzdorf, Boek,

      Smith, Phelips, Fuller, Lind, and Battersby,

       And hosts of ranksmen round . . .

       Memorials linger yet to speak to thee

       Of those that bit the ground!

      The Guards’ last column yielded; dykes of dead

       Lay between vale and ridge,

       As, thinned yet closing, faint yet fierce, they sped

       In packs to Genappe Bridge.

      Safe was my stock; my capple cow unslain;

       Intact each cock and hen;

       But Grouchy far at Wavre all day had lain,

       And thirty thousand men.

      O Saints, had I but lost my earing corn

       And saved the cause once prized!

       O Saints, why such false witness had I borne

       When late I’d sympathized! . . .

      So now, being old, my children eye askance

       My slowly dwindling store,

       And crave my mite; till, worn with tarriance,

       I care for life no more.

      To Almighty God henceforth I stand confessed,

       And Virgin-Saint Marie;

       O Michael, John, and Holy Ones in rest,

       Entreat the Lord for me!