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ON THEROUANNE, IN FRANCE.
A wake,.a wake, the May-morn Sun,
Sheds light on rock, and tower, and tree ;
The harbinger of joy and fun, The God of mirth and jollity !
Come, bring the rods, and let us plan
A trip to dear old Therouanne.
When Caesar's galleys spread their sails, To land on Britain's storm-bound shore,
From Tiurouanne hills he caught the gales, That o'er the wave his fortune bore ;
But now a slender trout-stream glides
Where once old ocean poured his tides.
The self-same hills above us frown, That look'd on all his proud array ;
Yon village, once a peopled town,
Tells how those scenes have passed away ;
O'er that sweet plain by cattle trod,
The imperial navy proudly rode !
High hopes were his !—Where'er he gazed, A thousand sails were spread on high ;
Around, ten thousand watch-fires blazed, Unnumbered standards filled the sky ;
Ail owned the world's great master's sway?
But where is he ?—And where are they ?