Together, by thy fair young sister's side,

We lay, 'midst England's valleys!

Dost thou grieve,

Hus.
Agnes! that thou hast followed o'er the deep
An exile's fortunes? If it thus can be,
Then, after many a conflict cheerily met,
My spirit sinks at last.

My Edmond, pardon me! Oh! grief is wild-
Forget its words, quick spray-drops from a fount
Of unknown bitterness! Thou art my home!
Mine only and my blessèd one. Where'er
Thy warm heart beats in its true nobleness,
There is my country, there my head shall rest
And throb no more. Oh! still by thy strong love

Bear up the feeble reed!

[Kneeling down with the child in her arms.]
And thou, my God!

Hear my soul's cry from this dread wilderness,
Oh! hear, and pardon me. If I have made
This treasure, sent from thee, too much the ark
Fraught with mine earthward clinging happiness,
Forgetting Him, who gave, and might resume,
Oh! pardon me.

If nature hath rebelled,
And from thy light turned willfully away,
Making a midnight of her agony,
When the despairing passion of her clasp.
Was from its idol stricken at one touch
Of thine Almighty hand-Oh, pardon me!
By thy Son's anguish pardon. In the soul,
The tempest and the waves will know thy voice-
Father, say," Peace, be still!"

[Giving the child to her husband.]
Farewell, my babe,

Go from my bosom now to other rest!

With this last kiss on thine unsullied brow,

And on thy pale calm cheek these contrite tears,
I yield thee to thy Maker.

Thine own meek holiness beams forth once more

A light upon my path. Now shall I bear,
From thy dear arms, the slumberer to repose,—
With a calm, trustful heart.

Hus.

Of yon

dark cypress

My Edmond, whêre,

Seest thou where the spire

reddens in the sun

To burning gold ?—there—o'er yon willow tuft?
Under that native desert monument

Lies his lone bed. Our Hubert, since the dawn,

With the gray mosses of the wilderness

Hath lined it closely through; and there breathed forth,
E'en from the fullness of his own pure heart,

A wild, sad forest hymn-a song of tears,

Which thou wilt learn to love. I heard the boy

Chanting it o'er his solitary task,

As wails a wood bird to the thrilling leaves,
Perchance unconsciously.

AGNES.

My gentle son!

The affectionate, the gifted!-With what joy. -
Edmond, rememberest thou?-with what bright joy
His baby brother ever to his arms

Would spring from rosy sleep, and playfully
Hide the rich clusters of his gleaming hair

In that kind youthful breast!-Oh! now no more—
But strengthen me, my God! and melt my heart,
Even to a well-spring of adoring tears,

For many a blessing left.

[Bending over the child.] Once more, farewell!

Oh! the pale piercing sweetness of that look,

How can it be sustained? Away, away! [After a short pause.] Edmond, my woman's nature still is weak-

I cannot see thee render dust to dust!

Go thou, my husband, to thy solěmn task—
I will rest,here, and still my soul with prayer
Till thy return.

Hus.
Then strength be with thy prayer,
Peace on thy bosom. Faith and heavenly hope
Unto thy spirit. Fare thee well awhile!

We must be pilgrims of the woods again,
After this mournful hour.

MRS. F. D. "HEMANS.

CLXXV.-A VISIT TO WATERLOO.

Soon after issuing from Soigne to the great paved road, we began to see the pyramidal hill, surmounted by the lion, raised by the

Belgians on the spot where the chief fury of the battle raged, showing itself aloft in the opening of the road. It is strange what a sensation the first sight of this monument of the grand` conflict, which at once terminated the lives of seventy thousand human creatures, and the destinies of "Napoleon, gave us. A solemn brooding horror seemed to hover about it;-a vivid consciousness of the reality of the terrible scenes which had taken place there, comes with its presence. It stood up like a giant spectre of the past, assuring us that we were now actually on the spot.

We drew near Hougoumont with feelings of extreme interest. Never in the histories of wars and fighting, had a simple chateau of a country gentleman been the scene of so desperate a contest—or had had so decided an influence on the fate of the whole civilized world. Within the enclosures of this chateau, six thousand troops, chiefly British, were posted, and were assailed by twelve thousand of French under Jerome Bonaparte. Here the battle first commenced, and here it continued to rage with desperate and unabating fury for upward of eight hours; in fact, till the grand charge annihilated the Imperial Guard, and put an end to the offensive operations of the French. On one side of the devoted place was Jerome, on another General Foy, on a third General Rousillon, and on the fourth the Allied Army. The French division under Jerome Bonaparte, and the British troops on the opposite slope, fixed their batteries over it, while the two hostile nations were engaged in the deadliest strife on record, in and around the place, for its possession.

Six times the French are said to have forced their way into the orchard, but were always driven back by the allied troops. The walled garden and the court-yard they never took. Once they nearly succeeded, for they forced open the north gate of the farm-yard, and a desperate struggle took place in the gateway. At this crisis, Sergeant Graham, with gigantic strength, succeeded in forcing to the gate and fastening it. In the act of completing this exploit, he was interrupted by a French soldier, who had climbed to the top of the gateway, and endeavored to despatch him; but Graham, taking his musket from his captain, Wyndham, who was holding it while he tried to close the gate, shot the Frenchman, and then secured the bolts of the door. For this deed, and for fetching his brother, on his back, out of the barn, when set on fire by the enemy's shells, the Duke of Wellington adjudged to him the thousand pounds left by a gentleman to be given to the bravest man in the battle.

We walked along the front of the garden wall in silent astonishment at the millions of balls which have battered without destroying it. It is supposed that this stout wall of red brick was mistaken by the French, as they reached the extremity of the wood opposite to it,

for the close front rank of the English troops. At all events, they discharged a tremendous volley of shot against it, which was returned with equal briskness through the loopholes; so that, the thick smoke preventing the detection of the error by the French, the contest went on here most awfully, till it rose to such a pitch of rage, that the French soldiers rushed up to the very wall, and discovering the real obstruction, seized the barrels of the English muskets which protruded through it, and endeavored to wrest the weapons from their. possessors.

At the end of the battle, the space outside of the wall was piled with thousands of slain, astonishing the most veteran observers, familiar with slaughter, at their numbers. The wood which screened the French was so shattered by the shot and shells which fell into it, that it is wholly cut down. The chateau itself is gone. Napoleon, finding that he could not force the place, determined to burn out the English forces by shells. These were thrown in, in showers, and soon set the buildings in flames. About three o'clock, after more than three hours of desperate conflict, the whole of the chateau and part of the out-buildings were on fire.

The Lion Mount, in whose vicinity the battle raged most fiercely, is about the centre of the line, or about three-quarters of a mile from Hougoumont. To the left slopes away the ground toward Waterloo, and on this slope the Duke of Wellington kept his main reserve of troops, ordering them to lie down, so that they were protected from the enemy's fire till they were wanted; and to the right, lay the great field of contest. The battle raged from forenoon till night, except in the Prussian portion of it. Everywhere deeds of eternal meinory were done, while five hundred pieces of artillery mowed down men like weeds. But especially around this mount raged the fury of the tempest of death. Charge after charge of the French cavalry swept across the valley between the two armies, and dashed on the serried files of the allies-only to be flung back again like waves from the ocean rocks; till, as the sun was casting his setting beams over the hill, the final hour was come. Ney led up the hitherto invincible Imperial Guards, twelve thousand strong,-the English duke gave the decisive word, "Up, guards, and at them!" the finest infantry the world produced confronted each other, and after a shock, like that of an earthquake, the veterans of Jena, Austerlitz, and Wagram reeled backward before the exterminating fire-and, in the expressive words of Ney, "became annihilated—not a man of them ever to rally more."

Of no battle have the details been so much discussed, contested, and distorted. German, and even French authors, have claimed the victory for their respective nations. It is of little use contending as

to whose was the victory; it was a victory which wrung from the firm heart of the Iron Duke, in his despatch to Prince Schwarzenberg, these memorable words: "Our battle on the 18th was one of giants; and our success was most complete, as you perceive. God grant I may never see another! For I am overwhelmed with grief for the loss of my old friends and comrades." We say, Amen! May the world never see such another vast and fearful field of carnage. Waterloo was the terrible close of a terrible reign of Moloch, which began with the attempts of despotic powers to resist the progress of liberty, and ended in this signal destruction of the great genius of conquest and subjugation which they had raised into being.

Pondering on these facts—the °sanguinary gloom of the past, the bright and glowing dawn of the future-we descended the Mount of the Lion, and pursued our visit to various quarters of the great gory field, where heroic hearts were crushed by thousands; or we turned to where some one of the many sad and touching stories told by survivors drew our sympathies to the spot. Where we now walked in the green corn, we thought of those who all night long had lain there wounded, amid perished and perishing thousands; where they heard the agonized groan, and saw the prowling plunderer doing his base and often murderous work. Especially did the image of that young British officer come before us, who perished by the plunderer's bayonet rather than suffer his mother's picture to be torn from him.

Beneath our feet slept seventy thousand men-but above them waved the green corn, and sang the lark, and shone the bright exulting sun. The victims of the past sleep deep in the repose of nearly forty years, but

"I saw around me the wide fields revive,

With fruits and fertile promise, and the spring
Come forth her work of gladness to contrive,
With all her reckless birds upon the wing;"

And it seemed to me to symbolize a more glorious future. I felt that it was good to have trodden this famous field, whose aspect, in bright contrast to its memories, assures us that-in the words of Elizabeth 'Browning

"Drums and battle-cries

Go out in music of the morning star

And soon we shall have thinkers in the place

Of fighters; each found able as a man

To strike electric influence through a race

Unstayed by city wall, or barbacan."

CHARLES DICKENS.