But half of our heavy task was done
      When the clock struck the hour for retiring;
    And we heard the distant and random gun
      That the foe was sullenly firing.

    Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
      From the field of his fame fresh and gory;
    We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone—­
      But we left him alone with his glory!

C. WOLFE.

 THE EVE OF WATERLOO.

“The Eve of Waterloo,” by Lord Byron (1788-1824).  Here is another old reading-book gem that will always be dear to every boy’s heart if he only reads it a few times.

    There was a sound of revelry by night,
      And Belgium’s capital had gathered then
    Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright
      The lamps shone o’er fair women and brave men. 
    A thousand hearts beat happily; and when
      Music arose with its voluptuous swell,
    Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again,
      And all went merry as a marriage-bell: 
      But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!

    Did ye not hear it?  No; ’twas but the wind,
      Or the car rattling o’er the stony street. 
    On with the dance! let joy be unconfined! 
      No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet
    To chase the glowing hours with flying feet! 
      But hark!—­that heavy sound breaks in once more,
    As if the clouds its echo would repeat;
      And nearer, clearer, deadlier, than before! 
      Arm! arm! it is—­it is the cannon’s opening roar!

    Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,
      And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress
    And cheeks all pale, which, but an hour ago,
      Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness;
    And there were sudden partings, such as press
      The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs
    Which ne’er might be repeated:  who could guess
      If ever more should meet those mutual eyes,
      Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise?

    And there was mounting in hot haste:  the steed,
      The mustering squadron, and the clattering car,
    Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,
      And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;
    And the deep thunder peal on peal afar;
      And near, the beat of the alarming drum
    Roused up the soldier ere the morning star;
      While thronged the citizens with terror dumb,
      Or whispering with white lips, “The foe!  They come!  They come!”

    And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves,
      Dewy with Nature’s tear-drops, as they pass,
    Grieving, if aught inanimate e’er grieves,
      Over the unreturning brave—­alas! 
    Ere evening to be trodden like the grass
      Which, now beneath them, but above shall grow
    In its next verdure, when this fiery mass
      Of living valour, rolling on the foe,
      And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low.