With his face downward!

Chalgrove! Name of patriot pain!
O'er thy fresh fields that summer pass'd
The brand of war's red furnace blast,
Till heaven's soft tears wash'd out the blackening stain;--
Wash'd out and wept;--But could not so restore
England's gallant son:
Ere the fray was done
The stately head bow'd down; shatter'd; his warfare o'er.

Bending to the saddle-bow
With leaden arm that idle hangs,
Faint with the lancing torture-pangs,
He drops the rein; he lets the battle go:--
There, where the wife of his first love he woo'd
Turning for retreat;--
Memories bitter-sweet
Through death's fast-rising mist in youth's own light renew'd.

Then, as those who drown, perchance,
And all their years, a waking dream,
Flash pictured by in lightning gleam,
His childhood home appears, the mother's glance,
The hearth-side smile; the fragrance of the fields:
--Now, war's iron knell
Wakes the hounds of hell,
Whilst o'er the realm her scourge the rushing Fury wields!

Doth he now the day lament