 | Three Hundred Sonnets |  |
179
CHOBHAM.
Once more a silent solitary spot,Chobham,—already those thy glories seem
Half-lost to memory, like a fading dream
Of martial sights and sounds, which now are not:
The tents, array'd so trim, that used to teem
With merry humours, all are swept away;
Where is the Rifleman,—the kilted Scot,—
The helm'd Life-guardsman,—and the Lancer gay?
Where are the Guns, that thunder'd thick and hot
Galloping furiously through the fray?
All, all are gone: and where with stirring tramp
The troops defiling proudly wont to pass,
Nothing is seen to cheer this rugged swamp
But spotted sundews and wild cotton-grass!
| Three Hundred Sonnets | |