...elds of slaughter, looking along our devoted ranks, the pathos and power of those lines, in which a master of words commemorates Waterloo, thrilled my soul as prophecies of that awaiting us: 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...