A brighter, livelier scene succeeds;
In groupes the scattering wood recedes,
Hedge-rows, and huts, and sunny meads,
And corn-fields glance between;
The peasant, at his labour blithe,
Plies the hook’d staff and shorten’d 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 disproportion’d spire, are thine,
Immortal WATERLOO!