Then in thought Byron goes over all that took place that fateful day.

    “There was a sound of revelry by night,
    And Belgium’s capital had gather’d 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 look’d love to eyes which spake again,
    And all went merry as a marriage bell;
    But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes 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 Blush’d at the praise of their own loveliness; And there were sudden parting, 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 throng’d the citizens with terror dumb,
    Or whispering, with white lips—­’The foe! they come! they
come!’”

And then thinking of the battle lost by the great conqueror of Europe, the poet mourns for him—­

    “Conqueror and captive of the earth art thou! 
    She trembles at thee still, and thy wild name
    Was ne’er more bruited in men’s minds than now
    That thou are nothing, save the jest of Fame,
    Who woo’d thee once, thy vassal, and became
    The flatterer of thy fierceness, till thou wert
    A god unto thyself; nor less the same
    To thee astounded kingdoms all inert,
    Who deem’d thee for a time whate’er thou didst assert.

    “Oh, more or less than man—­in high or low,
    Battling with nations, flying from the field;
    Now making monarchs’ necks thy footstool, now
    More than thy meanest soldier taught to yield;
    An empire thou couldst crush, command, rebuild,
    But govern not thy pettiest passion, nor,
    However deeply in men’s spirits skill’d,
    Look through thine own, nor curb the lust of war,
    Nor learn that tempted Fate will eave the loftiest Star.”