The Field of Waterloo, 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!