Not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that grates the ground,
Not a spar that comes to grief!
The peril, see, is past,
All are harbored to the last,
And just as Hervé Riel hollas "Anchor!"—sure as fate,
Up the English come—too late!
VIII
So, the storm subsides to calm:
They see the green trees wave
On the heights o'erlooking Grève.