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.