CHORUS OF RUMOURS
Pushing spread they!--shout as they reach the summit!-- Strength and stir new-primed in their plump battalions: Puffs of barbed flame blown on the lines opposing Higher and higher.
There those hold them mute, though at speaking distance-- Mute, while clicking flints, and the crash of volleys Whelm the weighted gloom with immense distraction Pending their fire.
Fronting heads, helms, brows can each ranksman read there, Epaulettes, hot cheeks, and the shining eyeball, [Called a trice from gloom by the fleeting pan-flash]
Pressing them nigher!
The French again fall back in disorder into the hollow, and LAp.i.s.sE draws off on the right. As the sinking sound of the muskets tells what has happened the English raise a shout.
CHORUS OF PITIES
Thus the dim nocturnal embroil of conflict Closes with the roar of receding gun-fire.
Harness loosened then, and their day-long strenuous Temper unbending,
Worn-out lines lie down where they late stood staunchly-- Cloaks around them rolled--by the bivouac embers: There at dawn to stake in the dynasts" death-game All, till the ending!
SCENE V
THE SAME
DUMB SHOW [continued]
The morning breaks. There is another murderous attempt to dislodge the English from the hill, the a.s.sault being pressed with a determination that excites the admiration of the English themselves.
The French are seen descending into the valley, crossing it, and climbing it on the English side under the fire of HILL"S whole division, all to no purpose. In their retreat they leave behind them on the slopes nearly two thousand lying.
The day advances to noon, and the air trembles in the intense heat.
The combat flags, and is suspended.
SPIRIT OF THE PITIES
What do I see but thirsty, throbbing bands From these inimic hosts defiling down In homely need towards the little stream That parts their enmities, and drinking there!
They get to grasping hands across the rill, Sealing their sameness as earth"s sojourners.-- What more could plead the wryness of the time Than such unstudied piteous pantomimes!
SPIRIT IRONIC
It is only that Life"s queer mechanics chance to work out in this grotesque shape just now. The groping tentativeness of an Immanent Will [as grey old Years describes it] cannot be asked to learn logic at this time of day! The spectacle of Its instruments, set to riddle one another through, and then to drink together in peace and concord, is where the humour comes in, and makes the play worth seeing!
SPIRIT SINISTER
Come, Sprite, don"t carry your ironies too far, or you may wake up the Unconscious Itself, and tempt It to let all the gory clock-work of the show run down to spite me!
DUMB SHOW [continuing]
The drums roll, and the men of the two nations part from their comradeship at the Alberche brook, the dark ma.s.ses of the French army a.s.sembling anew. SIR ARTHUR WELLESLEY has seated himself on a mound that commands a full view of the contested hill, and remains there motionless a long time. When the French form for battle he is seen to have come to a conclusion. He mounts, gives his orders, and the aides ride off.
The French advance steadily through the sultry atmosphere, the skirmishers in front, and the columns after, moving, yet seemingly motionless. Their eighty cannon peal out and their shots mow every s.p.a.ce in the line of them. Up the great valley and the terraces of the hill whose fame is at that moment being woven, comes VILLATE, boring his way with foot and horse, and RUFFIN"S men following behind.
According to the order given, the Twenty-third Light Dragoons and the German Hussars advance at a chosen moment against the head of these columns. On the way they disappear.
SPIRIT OF THE PITIES
Why this bedevilment? What can have chanced?
SPIRIT OF RUMOUR
It so befalls that as their chargers near The inimical wall of flesh with its iron frise, A treacherous chasm uptrips them: zealous men And docile horses roll to dismal death And horrid mutilation.
SPIRIT OF THE PITIES
Those who live Even now advance! I"ll see no more. Relate.
SPIRIT OF RUMOUR
Yes, those pant on. Then further Frenchmen cross, And Polish Lancers, and Westphalian Horse, Who ring around these luckless Islanders, And sweep them down like reeds by the river-bank In scouring floods; till scarce a man remains.
Meanwhile on the British right SEBASTIANI"S corps has precipitated itself in column against GENERAL CAMPBELL"S division, the division of LAp.i.s.sE against the centre, and at the same time the hill on the English left is again a.s.saulted. The English and their allies are pressed sorely here, the bellowing battery tearing lanes through their ma.s.ses.
SPIRIT OF RUMOUR [continuing]
The French reserves of foot and horse now on, Smiting the Islanders in breast and brain Till their mid-lines are shattered.... Now there ticks The moment of the crisis; now the next, Which brings the turning stroke.
SIR ARTHUR WELLESLEY sends down the Forty-eighth regiment under COLONEL DONELLAN to support the wasting troops. It advances amid those retreating, opening to let them pa.s.s.
SPIRIT OF THE RUMOUR [continuing]
The pales, enerved, The hitherto unflinching enemy!
Lap.i.s.se is pierced to death; the flagging French Decline into the hollows whence they came.
The too exhausted English and reduced Lack strength to follow.--Now the western sun, Conning with unmoved visage quick and dead, Gilds hors.e.m.e.n slackening, and footmen stilled, Till all around breathes drowsed hostility.
Last, the swealed herbage lifts a leering light, And flames traverse the field; and hurt and slain Opposed, opposers, in a common plight Are scorched together on the dusk champaign.