France, every nation's foe, is there,
And Albion's sons her red cross bear,
With Spain's young Liberty to share
The fortune of the fray.
Rang'd on Alberche's hither sands,
He of the borrow'd crown commands
France's fraternal might ;
While Talavera's wall between,
And olive greves and gardens green,
Spain quarters on the right;
Thence to where hills o'erlook the plains
The British band the left maintain,
Fronting the east, as if to gain
The earliest glimpse of light.
There, while they wait the anxious morn,
Hark! on the midnight breeze are borne
Sounds from the vale below.
What sounds? no gleam of arms they see,
Yet still they hear what may it be?
It is, it is the foe!
Down, down the hill and through the shade,
With ball, and bayonet, and blade
They charge them home,-that charge has laid Full many a Frenchman low!
Thrice come they on, and thrice their shock Rebounding breaks, as from a rock
The wintry billow's thrown;
many a gallant feat is done,
And many a laurel lost and won,
Unwitness'd and unknown:
Feats that achiev'd in face of day,
In Peter's holy aisle for aye
Had liv'd in sculptur'd stone.
Oh! for a blaze from heaven to light
The wonders of that gloomy fight,
The wreath of honour to bestow,
Of which the sullen envious night
Bereaves the warrior's brow.
Darkling they fight, and only know
If chance has sped the fatal blow,
Or by the trodden corse below,
Or by the dying groan:
Furious they strike without a mark,
Save now and then the sulph'rous spark
Illumes some visage grim and dark,
That with the flash is gone.
Promiscuous death around they send,
Foe falls by foe, and friend by friend,
Heap'd in that narrow plain :
But, with the dawn, the victors view
Ten gallant French the valley strew
For every Briton slain,
They view with not unmingled pride-
Some anxious thought their souls divide,
Another victory's still to gain ;
A fiercer field must yet be tried,
Hundreds of foes they see have died,
But thousands still remain.
From the hill summit they behold,
Tipp'd with the morning's orient gold,
And swarming o'er the field,
Full fifty thousand muskets bright,
Led by old warriors train'd to fight,
And all in conquest skill'd:
With twice their number doom'd to try
The unequal war, brave souls! they cry,
"Conquer we may, perhaps, must die,
But never, never yield !"
Thus ardent they; but who can tell
In Wellesley's heart what passions swell;
What cares must agitate his mind,
What wishes, doubts and hopes combin'd,
Whom, with his country's chosen bands,
Midst cold allies in foreign lands,
Outnumb'ring foes surround:
From whom that country's jealous call,
Demands the blood, the fame of all;
To whom 'twere not enough to fall,
Unless with victory crown'd.
Oh heart of honour, soul of fire,
E'en at that moment fierce and dire
Thy agony of fame!
When Britain's fortune dubious hung,
And France, tremendous, swept along
In tides of blood and flame:
E'en while thy genius and thy arm
Retriev'd the day, and turn'd the storm;
E'en at that moment, factious spite
And envious fraud essay'd to blight
The honours of thy name.
He thinks not of them ;-from that height
He views the scene of future fight,
And, silent and serene, surveys
Down to the plain where Tajo strays,
The woods, the streams, the mountain ways,
Each dell and sylvan hold:
And all his gallant chiefs around
Observant watch, where o'er the ground
His eagle glance has roll'd.
Few words he spoke, or needed they,
Where to condense the loose array,
Or where the line unfold;
They saw, they felt, what he would say,
And the best order of that day
It was his eye that told.
Prophetic to each Chief he shews
On wing or centre, where the foes
Will pour their fury most:
Points out what portion of the field
To their advance 'twere good to yield,
And what must now be lost.
"Away! away! the adverse power
"Marshals and moves his host; " 'Tis come, 'tis come, the trial hour, "Each to his destin'd post:
"And when you charge, be this your cry, "Britons strike home; and win or die,"The grave or victory!"
And it is now a goodly sight,
Or dreadful to behold,
The pomp of that approaching fight,
Waving ensigns, pennons light,
And gleaming blades and bayonets bright,
And eagles wing'd with gold;
And warrior-bands of many a hue,
Scarlet and white, and green and blue,
Like rainbows o'er the morning dew,
Their varied lines unfold;
While cymbal clang and trumpet strain,
The knell of battle toll'd;
And trampling squadrons beat the plain,,
"Till the clouds echo'd back again,
As if the thunder roll'd.
Soon, soon must vanish that array,
Those various colours fade away,
And eagle bright and pennon gay,
With bloody dust be soil'd;
Soon, soon be hush'd in various death,
The cymbal's clang, the trumpet's breath,
And shouts of warriors wild.
Thousands shall of every force,
English and French, and foot and horse,
In mingled carnage pil'd.
And distant lands shall share the woe,
Nor Tajo's stream alone shall flow;
With this day's grief defil'd.
On Severn's banks, and Loire's, and Rhine's,
Full many a victim pines,
And longs the news it dreads to hear,
And trembles and desires.—
Wives for their husbands pray and fear,
And parents for their children dear,
And children for their sires:
Long shall they pine, and fear and pray-
Many are doom'd to death to-day,
Whose fate shall ne'er at home be told,
Whose very names the grave shall fold;,
Many, for whose return in vain
The wistful eye of love shall strain,
In vain parental fondness sigh,
And filial sorrow mourn;-
On Talavera's plain they lie,
No! never to return!
But, tyrant, thou, whose ruthless wile
It was to sap Ibernia's throne;
With oaths confiding youth beguile,
Cheat thy sworn ally of his crown,
Chain him in treach'rous dungeon down,
And Bourbon's hallow'd seat defile
With a base puppet of thine own:-
Thou yet shalt feel the vengeance due
To him who swears but to betray;
Who never aids but to undo,
And only smiles to slay!
In thy last hour of parting pain,
The parent's, widow's, orphan's moan,
The shrieking of the battle plain,
The murder'd prisoner's midnight groan
Shall harrow up thy brain;
Millions by thee untimely slain,
Thou peopler of the tomb,
Shall rise upon thy frensied view—
See D'Enghien leads the shadowy crew,
And stern and silent 'midst their cries,
Shakes the curst torches in thine eyes,
That lighted to his doom!
Yet, ere that hour there's vengeance still,
And Talavera's stubborn hill
Shall cost thee many a pang
Of anxious fear and wounded pride;
Tho' over half the world beside,
Thy chains of conquest clang;
Tho' empires at thy footstool cower,
Still Spain and England brave thy power,
In faith and victory knit, they shroud
Thy fame, and with a thunder cloud,
Thy destiny o'erhang!
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