The Field of Waterloo, III

Fear not the heat, though full and high The sun has scorched the autumn sky, And scarce a forest straggler now To shade us spreads a greenwood bough; These fields have seen a hotter day Than e’er was fired by sunny ray, Yet one mile on—yon shattered hedge Crests the soft hill whose long smooth ridge Looks on the field below, And sinks so gently on the dale That not the folds of Beauty’s veil In easier curves can flow. Brief space from thence, the ground again Ascending slowly from the plain Forms an opposing screen, Which, with its crest of upland ground, Shuts the horizon all around. The softened vale between Slopes smooth and fair for courser’s tread; Not the most timid maid need dread To give her snow-white palfrey head On that wide stubble-ground; Nor wood, nor tree, nor bush are there, Her course to intercept or scare, Nor fosse nor fence are found, Save where, from out her shattered bowers, Rise Hougomont’s dismantled towers.