We do not curse thee, Waterloo!

Though Freedom's blood thy plain bedew;

There 'twas shed, but is not sunk—

Rising from each gory trunk,

Like the water-spout from ocean,

With a strong and growing motion—

It soars, and mingles in the air,

With that of lost La Bédoyère—[323]

With that of him whose honoured grave

Contains the "bravest of the brave."

A crimson cloud it spreads and glows,

But shall return to whence it rose;

When 'tis full 'twill burst asunder—

Never yet was heard such thunder

As then shall shake the world with wonder—

Never yet was seen such lightning

As o'er heaven shall then be bright'ning!

Like the Wormwood Star foretold

By the sainted Seer of old,

Show'ring down a fiery flood,

Turning rivers into blood.[324]