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Well art thou now repaid—though slowly rose,
Rivall'd the heroes of the watry way,
Now, Island Empress, wave thy crest on high,
The chosen emblem of thy sainted Knight,
Yet 'mid the confidence of just renown,
'Tis constancy in the good cause alone,
END OF THE FIELD OF WATERLOO.
[Paris, 5th September, 1815.)
SOFT spread the southern summer night
Her veil of darksome blue; Ten thousand stars combined to light
The terrace of Saint Cloud.
The evening breezes gently sigh'd,
Like breath of lover true, Bewailing the deserted pride
And wreck of sweet Saint Cloud.
The drum's deep roll was heard afar,
The bugle wildly blew
That garrison Saint Cloud.
The startled Naiads from the shade
With broken urns withdrew,
The glory of Saint Cloud.
We sate upon its steps of stone,
Nor could its silence rue,
The echoes of Saint Cloud.