Lo, yon green rampart! towering once in pride,
And bristling, too, with bayonets, that long
The prowess of the immortal Wolfe defied.—
Not to the peaceful Muse doth it belong
To weave with sturdy martial words her song,
Else might I speak of glacis and of fosse,
Of massy culvert, and of battery strong,
And blasted battlements o'ergrown with moss,
Around whose ruined base the angry billows toss.—
Eastward there stood upon the frowning steep—