O hero of a race renowned of old, Whose war-cry oft has waked the battle-swell, Since first distinguished in the onset bold, Wild sounding when the Roman rampart fell! By Wallace’ side it rung the Southron’s knell, Alderne, Kilsythe, and Tibber owned its fame, Tummell’s rude pass can of its terrors tell, But ne’er from prouder field arose the name Than when wild Ronda learned the conquering shout of GRÆME! XVIII. But all too long, through seas unknown and dark, (With Spenser’s parable I close my tale,) By shoal and rock hath steered my venturous bark, And landward now I drive before the gale. And now the blue and distant shore I hail, And nearer now I see the port expand, And now I gladly furl my weary sail, And, as the prow light touches on the strand, I strike my red-cross flag and bind my skiff to land. THE FIELD OF WATERLOO. I. FAIR Brussels, thou art far behind, Though, lingering on the morning wind, We yet may hear the hour Pealed over orchard and canal, With voice prolonged and measured fall, From proud St. Michael’s tower; Thy wood, dark Soignies, holds us now, Where the tall beeches’ glossy bough For many a league around, With birch and darksome oak between, Spreads deep and far a pathless screen, Of tangled forest ground. Stems planted close by stems defy The adventurous foot—the curious eye For access seeks in vain; And the brown tapestry of leaves, Strewed on the blighted ground, receives Nor sun, nor air, nor rain. No opening glade dawns on our way, No streamlet, glancing to the ray, Our woodland path has crossed; And the straight causeway which we tread Prolongs a line of dull arcade, Unvarying through the unvaried shade Until in distance lost. II. A brighter, livelier scene succeeds; In groups the scattering wood recedes, Hedge-rows, and huts, and sunny meads, And corn-fields glance between; The peasant, at his labour blithe, Plies the hooked staff and shortened scythe:— But when these ears were green, Placed close within destruction’s scope, Full little was that rustic’s hope Their ripening to have seen! And, lo, a hamlet and its fane:— Let not the gazer with disdain Their architecture view; For yonder rude ungraceful shrine, And disproportioned spire, are thine, Immortal WATERLOO! III.