EDWARD BLACKADDER

I LOITER here within this ancient town— Long time agone the rising hope of France, The seed of future empire—as in trance, 'Mid storied scenes, I wander up and down. Here are the grass-grown walls which bore the frown Of death-disgorging cannon long ago, And wide the gleaming basin spreads below, Where thunder-bearing ships no more are known. Yea, death hath reaped his harvest in this place; Along these shores have hundreds bled and died To save this jewel for the Gallic crown. Stern fate ordained it for another race: The sturdy Saxon tills yon meadows wide; Peace rules o'er all; war's trumpet sleeps unblown.