The morning arose on the streams of the Sambre,
Smooth flowing the current, and limpid the wave,
But night with a torrent more dark than December,
Deformed the green banks with the blood of the Brave.
Be rest to the Shades of our Heroes departed,
The sport of Ambition, the victims of Fame;
And peace to the friends they have left broken-hearted,
Deploring the fate that ennobles their name:
For though the fond heart may exult in their glory,
The tear of affection must flow for their fall,
And the Brave who survive to recount their sad story,
Shall envy the honours that cover their pall.
But if the loud shouts of our triumph and gladness
Strike harsh on the ear of the Lone and Bereaved,
O! may this remembrance shed balm on their sadness—
That Europe was saved by the deeds they achieved.
And sure, if the Shades of our heroes returning,
Could list to the sigh, or could witness the tear,
For a Warrior's fate, they would check the fond mourning,
And proudly exult in the Pæans we hear.