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.