The Field of Waterloo, XXIII

Farewell, sad Field! whose blighted face Wears desolation’s withering trace; Long shall my memory retain Thy shattered huts and trampled grain, With every mark of martial wrong, That scathe thy towers, fair Hougomont! Yet though thy garden’s green arcade The marksman’s fatal post was made, Though on thy shattered beeches fell The blended rage of shot and shell, Though from thy blackened portals torn, Their fall thy blighted fruit-trees mourn, Has not such havoc bought a name Immortal in the rolls of fame? Yes—Agincourt may be forgot, And Cressy be an unknown spot, And Blenheim’s name be new; But still in story and in song, For many an age remembered long, Shall live the towers of Hougomont And Field of Waterloo!