Part 2

Hot and impetuous they pursued, And wild with carnage, drunk with blood, Rush’d on the plain below; The wily Frenchman saw and stood-- Screen’d by the verges of the wood He turn’d him on the foe. The gallant bands that guard the crown Of England, led the battle down, And, in their furious mood, Thrice they essay’d with onset fierce, Thrice fail’d, collected France to pierce-- Still France collected, stood! While full on each uncover’d flank Cannon and mortar swept their rank, And many a generous Briton sank Before the dreadful blaze; Yet ’midst that dreadful blaze and din The fearless shout they raise, And ever, as their numbers thin, Fresh spirits rush unbidden in, Thoughtless, but how the meed to win Of peril and of praise. And still, as with a blacker shade Fortune obscures the day, Commingled thro’ the fight they wade, And hand to hand and blade to blade, Their blind and furious efforts braid, As if, still dark and disarray’d, They fought the midnight fray.

XXVIII.

In vain.--New hopes and fresher force Inspirit France, and urge her course, A torrent, rapid, wild, and hoarse, On Britain’s wavering train. As when, before the wintery skies, The struggling forests sink and rise, And rise and sink again, While the gale scatters as it flies Their ruins o’er the plain; Before the tempest of her foes, So England sank, and England rose, And, though still rooted in the vale, Strew’d her rent branches on the gale. Then, Wellesley! on thy tortured thought With ripening hopes of glory fraught, What honest anguish crost! Oh, how thy generous bosom burn’d, To see the tide of victory turn’d, And Spain and England lost!-- Lost--but that, as the peril great And rising with the storms of fate, His rapid genius soars, Sees, at a glance, his whole resource, Drains from each stronger point its force, And on the weaker pours: Present where’er his soldiers bleed, He rushes thro’ the fray, And, (so the doubtful chances need,) In high emprize and desperate deed, Squanders himself away!

XXIX.

Now from the summit, at his call, A gallant legion firm and slow Advances on victorious Gaul; Undaunted, though their comrades fall! Unshaken, though their leader’s low! Fix’d--as the high and buttress’d mound Which guards some leaguer’d city round, They stand unmoved--Behind them form The scatter’d fragments of the storm; While on their sheltering front, amain France drives, with all her thundering train, Her full career of death: But drives not long her full career, For now, that living bulwark near, Fault’ring between fatigue and fear She stops and pants for breath: That dubious pause, that wavering rest, The Britons seize, and breast to breast Opposing, havoc’s arm arrest, And from the foe’s exulting crest, Tear down the laurel wreath.

XXX.

Nor does the gallant foe resign, Even while his hopes and strength decline, A tame inglorious prize;-- Long, long on Britain’s rallied line The deadly fire he plies; Long, long where Britain’s banners shine He vainly toils and dies! Ne’er to a battle’s fiercer groan Did mountain echo roar, Nor ever evening blush upon A redder field of gore. But feebler now, and feebler still, The panting French assail the hill, And weaker grows their cannon’s roar, And thinner falls their missile shower, Fainter their clanging steel; The hot and furious fit is o’er, They shout--they charge--they stand no more-- And staggering in the slippery gore, Their very leaders reel.

XXXI.

But shooting high and rolling far, What new and horrid face of war Now flushes on the sight? ’Tis France, as furious she retires, That wreaks, in desolating fires, The vengeance of her flight. Already parch’d by summer’s sun, The grassy vale the flames o’er-run; And, sweeping wreath’d and light Before the wind, the thickets seize, And climb the dry and withered trees, In flashes long and bright. Oh! ’twas a scene sublime and dire, To see that billowy sea of fire, Rolling its flaky tide O’er cultured field and tangled wood, And drowning in the flaming flood The seasons’ hope and pride!

XXXII.

From Talavera’s wall and tower And from the mountain’s height, Where they had stood for many an hour To view the varying fight, Burghers and peasants in amaze Behold their groves and vineyards blaze: Calm they had view’d the bloody fray, And little thought that France’s groan And England’s sigh, ere close of day, Should mingle with their own! But ah! far other cries than these Are wafted on the dismal breeze-- Groans, not the wounded’s lingering groan-- Shrieks, not the shriek of death alone-- But groan, and shriek, and yell, Of terror, torture, and despair; Such as ’twould chill the heart to hear And freeze the tongue to tell-- When to the very field of fight, Dreadful alike in sound and sight, The conflagration spread, Involving in its fiery wave The brave and reliques of the brave-- The dying and the dead!

XXXIII.

And now again the evening sheds Her dewy veil on Teio’s side, And from the Sierra’s rocky heads The giant shadows stride; And all is dim and dark again-- Save here and there upon the plain, Still flash the baleful fires, Across the umber’d face of night Casting a dull and flickering light, As if from funeral pyres. But since the close of yester-e’en How alter’d is the martial scene! Again, in night’s surrounding veil, France moves her busy bands--but now She comes not, venturous, to assail The victors in their guarded vale, Or on the mountain’s brow-- Dash’d from her triumph’s windy car She mourns the wayward fate of war, And baffled and dishearten’d, o’er Alberche’s stream and from his shore, With silent haste she speeds, Nor dares, ev’n at that midnight hour, To snatch the rest she needs; Far from the field where late she fought-- The tents where late she lay-- With rapid step and humbled thought, All night she holds her way: Leaving, to Britain’s conquering sons, Standards rent and ponderous guns, The trophies of the fray! The weak, the wounded, and the slain-- The triumph of the battle plain-- The glory of the day!

XXXIV.

I would not check the tender sigh, Nor chide the pious tear, That heaves the heart and dims the eye For friend or kinsman dear; Ev’n when their honoured reliques lie On victory’s proudest bier; But I would say, for those that die In honour’s high career, For those in glory’s grave who sleep, Weep fondly, but, _exulting_, weep! More freshly from the untimely tomb Renown’s eternal laurels bloom With sullen cypress twined. Fortune is fickle and unsure, And worth and fame to be secure Must be in death enshrin’d!

XXXV.

I too have known what ’tis to part With the first inmate of my heart-- To feel the bonds of nature riven-- To witness o’er the glowing dawn, The spring of youth, the fire of heaven, The grave’s deep shadows drawn! He sleeps not on the gory plain The slumber of the brave-- Dear Victim of disease, and pain, Where high Madeira’s summits reign Far o’er the Atlantic wave, He sought eluding health--in vain-- Health never lit his eye again, He fills a foreign grave! Oh, had he lived, his hand to-day Had woven for the victor’s brow, Such garland of immortal bay, Such chaplet as the enraptured lay Of genius may bestow! Or,--since ’twas Heaven’s severer doom To snatch him to an earlier tomb-- Would, Wellesley, would that he had died Beneath thine eye and at thy side! It would have lighten’d sorrow’s load, Had thy applause on him bestow’d The fame he loved in thee; And rear’d his honoured tomb beside Those of the gallant hearts who died, Their kinsmen’s, friends’, and country’s pride, In Talavera’s victory!

ODE

SUNG AT THE DINNER GIVEN BY THE GENTLEMEN FROM INDIA TO FIELD-MARSHAL THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON, K.G. MONDAY, JULY 11, 1814.

I.

Victor of Assaye’s orient plain;-- Victor of all the fields of Spain;-- Victor of France’s despot reign;-- Thy task of glory done! Welcome!--from dangers greatly dared; From triumphs, with the vanquish’d shared; From nations saved, and nations spared; Unconquer’d Wellington!--

II.

_Unconquer’d!_ yet thy honours claim A nobler, than a Conqueror’s, name;-- At the red wreaths of guilty fame Thy generous soul had blush’d: The blood--the tears the world has shed-- The throngs of mourners--piles of dead-- The grief--the guilt--are on _his_ head, The Tyrant thou hast crush’d.

III.

Thine was the sword which Justice draws; Thine was the pure and generous cause, Of holy rites and human laws The impious thrall to burst; And _thou_ wast destin’d for thy part! The noblest mind, the firmest heart, Artless--but in the warrior’s art-- And in that art, the first.

IV.

And WE, who in the eastern skies Beheld thy Sun of glory rise, Still follow, with exulting eyes, His proud Meridian height. Late,--on thy grateful country’s breast, Late, may that Sun descend to rest, Beaming through all the glowing West The memory of his light.

WAR SONG.

1803.

Wave, wave, the banners of the fight; Be every breast in armour dight, And every soul on fire! To trembling Europe’s frighted eyes, Red let the sun of battle rise; And bloody be the morning skies That bring the day of ire!

Whose impious voice, from his dark cave Wakes the destroyer of the brave? What hand prepares their tomb? ’Tis He, Ambition’s perjured sprite, ’Tis He, that waves the flags of fight, ’Tis He, in clouds of deadliest night, Who weaves the warrior’s doom.

Weep, weep, ye gentle dames of France, Ye, whose devoted sons advance To Britain’s fatal shore: O! kiss their lips before ye part, O! press them to your bursting heart-- Save in a dream’s convulsive start-- Ye ne’er shall clasp them more.

Arouse, arouse, ye British dames, With words of fire, the patriot flames That burn for glorious deed. For him that lives, the raptur’d eye Of love shall dance! for those who die, Their ladies’ tears, their country’s sigh, Shall be the sacred meed!

SONGS

OF

TRAFALGAR.

1805.

I.

Though I do love my country’s weal As well as any soul that breathes; Though more than filial pride I feel To see her crown’d, with conqu’ring wreaths;

Yet from my heart do I deplore Her recent triumphs on the main-- Those laurels dripping red with gore-- That victory bought with NELSON slain.

Oh! dearest conquest, heaviest loss, That England’s hope and heart have known Since first, in fight, her blood-red cross O’er the great deep triumphant shone.--

And she should wail that conquest dear, And she that heavy loss should mourn; Hallow with sighs her Hero’s bier, And gem with tears her Hero’s urn.

Shame on the wild and callous rout That lights for joy its countless fires, That hails the day with madd’ning shout, While HE, who won the day, expires!

It was, indeed, a glorious day,-- And every homage of the heart Were just, that rescued realms can pay, Had NELSON lived to share his part.

Had NELSON lived to hear our praise, I too had hymn’d the victor’s song; I too had lit the joyous blaze, And wildly join’d the exulting throng.

But HE is blind to pageant gay, And he is deaf to joyous strain; And I will raise no pleasant lay, And swell no pomp for NELSON slain.

But I will commune with my mind, To celebrate its darling Chief What worthiest tribute it may find Of soften’d pride, of temper’d grief.

Ye good and great, ’tis yours to raise The storied vase, the column tall, Through every future age to praise His life, and consecrate his fall:

Mine it will be, (oh! would my tongue Were gifted with immortal verse!) To strew, with many a sorrowing song, Parnassian cypress o’er his hearse.

II.

The fight was long;--and deep in blood Britain’s triumphant warriors stood: High o’er the wave, untorn, unstain’d, The ensigns of her glory reign’d: Around, the wreck’d and vanquish’d pride Of hostile navies strew’d the tide; Or scatter’d, as the tempest bore, Their ruins on the affrighted shore.

The haughty hopes of France and Spain, Had dream’d of conquest’s laurel crown-- O! vision, arrogant and vain!-- NELSON has swept them from the main, And dash’d their airy trophies down: Their fancied wreaths his brow adorn, Won by his valour, in his triumph worn.

But, hark! amidst the joyous shout, For Spain’s defeat, and France’s rout: But, hark! amidst the glad acclaim Of England’s honour, NELSON’S fame, What deep and sullen sounds arise? Are these, alas! victorious cries? Bode they a widow’d nation’s woe; The triumph vain, and NELSON low?--

In his full glory’s brightest blaze, On the high summit of his deeds, (While Victory’s saintly halo plays, With living fire,--immortal rays,-- Around his head,) the Hero bleeds; In pomp of death, to mortal eyes Never before revealed, the Hero dies.

He dies! but while on Egypt’s strand The Ptolomean tower shall stand;-- Stain’d with the turbid streams of Nile, While seas shall beat Aboukir’s isle;-- While the white ocean breaks and roars On Trafalgar’s immortal shores;-- While high St. Vincent’s towery steep And, giant of the Atlantic deep, Dark Teneriffe, like beacons, guide The wanderers of the western wave; Sublime shall stand, amid the tide Of baffled Time,--his country’s pride-- The sacred memory of the brave; And NELSON’S emulated name Shine the proud sea-mark to the ports of Fame!

III.

’Twas at the close of that dark morn On which our Hero, conquering, died, That every seaman’s heart was torn By strife of sorrow and of pride;--

Of pride, that one short day would show Deeds of eternal splendour done, Full twenty hostile ensigns low, And twenty glorious victories won--

Of grief, of deepest, tenderest grief, That He, on every sea and shore, Their brave, beloved, unconquer’d Chief, Should wave his victor-flag no more.

Sad was the eve of that dire day: But direr, sadder was the night; When human rage had ceased the fray, And elements maintain’d the fight.

All shaken in the conflict past The navies fear’d the tempest loud-- The gale, that shook the groaning mast-- The wave, that climb’d the tatter’d shroud.

By passing gleams of sullen light, The worn and weary seamen view’d The hard-earn’d prizes of the fight Sink, found’ring, in the midnight flood:

And oft, as drowning screams they heard, And oft, as sank the ships around, Some British vessel lost they fear’d, And mourn’d some British brethren drown’d.

And oft they cried, (as memory roll’d On Him, so late their hope and guide But now a bloody corse and cold,) ‘Was it for _this_, that NELSON died?’

For three short days, and three long nights, They wrestled with the tempest’s force; And sank the trophies of their fights,-- And thought upon that bloody corse!--

But when the fairer morn arose Bright o’er the yet-tumultuous main, They saw no wreck but that of foes, No ruin but of France and Spain:

And, victors now of winds and seas, Beheld the British vessels brave Breasting the ocean at their ease, Like sea-birds on their native wave:

And now they cried, (because they found Old England’s fleet in all its pride, While Spain’s and France’s hopes were drown’d,) ‘It _was_ for _this_ that NELSON died!’

He died, with many an hundred bold And honest hearts as ever beat!-- But where’s the British heart so cold That would not die in such a feat?

Yes! by their memories! by all The honours which their tomb surround! Theirs was the noblest, happiest fall Which ever mortal courage crown’d.

Then bear them to their glorious grave With no weak tears, no woman’s sighs; Theirs was the death-bed of the brave, And manly be their obsequies!

Haul not your colours from on high, Nor down the flags of victory lower:-- Give every streamer to the sky, Let all your conq’ring cannon roar;

That every kindling soul may learn How to resign its patriot breath; And from a grateful country, earn The triumphs of a trophied death.

IV.

Rear high the monumental stone!-- To other days, as to his own, Belong the Hero’s deathless deeds, Who greatly lives, who bravely bleeds.

Not to a petty point of time Or space, but wide to every clime And age, his glorious fall bequeaths Valour’s sword, and victory’s wreaths.

The rude but pious care of yore Heap’d o’er the brave the mounded shore; And still that mounded shore can tell Where Hector and Pelides fell.

There, over glory’s earthly bed, When many a wasting age had fled, The world’s Great Victor pour’d his pray’rs For fame, and monuments like theirs.

Happy the brave! whose sacred tomb _Itself_ averts the oblivious doom, Bears on its breast unfading bays, And gives eternity of praise!

High, then, the monumental pile Erect, for NELSON of the NILE! Of TRAFALGAR, and VINCENT’S heights, For NELSON of the hundred fights--

For Him, alike on shore and surge, Of proud Iberia’s power the scourge; And half around the sea-girt ball, The hunter of the recreant Gaul.

Rear the tall shaft on some bold steep Whose base is buried in the deep; But whose bright summit shines afar O’er the blue ocean, like a star.

Such let it be, as o’er the bed Of Nilus rears its lonely head; Which never shook at mortal might, Till NELSON lanced the bolts of fight.

(What time the ORIENT, wrapt in fire Blazed, its own seamen’s funeral pyre, And, with explosive fury riven, Sprang thundering to the midnight heaven.)

Around it, when the raven night Shades ocean, fire the beacon-light; And let it, thro’ the tempest, flame The star of safety as of fame.

Thither, as o’er the deep below The seaman seeks his country’s foe, His emulative eye shall roll, And NELSON’S spirit fill his soul.

Thither, shall youthful heroes climb, The NELSONS of an after-time, And, round that sacred altar, swear Such glory and such graves to share.

Raise then, imperial Britain, raise The trophied pillar of his praise; And worthy be its towering pride, Of those that live, of HIM that died!

Worthy of NELSON of the NILE! Of NELSON of the cloud-capp’d Isle, Of TRAFALGAR and VINCENT’S heights, Of NELSON of the hundred fights!

TO

HIM

WHO DESPAIRS OF SPAIN.

1809.

Despair of Spain!--and dost _thou_ dare To talk, cold plodder, of despair? Dost _thou_ presume to scan The proud revenge, the deathless zeal, The throes that injured nations feel, Beneath the oppressor’s ban; The pride, the spirit, and the power, That, growing with the arduous hour, Ennoble patriot man?

O thou of little heart and hope, Purblind diviner, can thy scope Nothing but danger see?-- Unfrighted tho’ with carnage strew’d, Ev’n in her ruins unsubdued, Great in adversity, Do Saragossa and her train-- Heroes and Saints--survive in vain, Shall they be told ‘Despair of Spain,’ And told, alas! by _thee_?

Oh, no; tho’ France’s murderous hand Should sweep the desolated land, _Revenge_ will still remain:-- Smother’d, but not extinguish’d quite, A spark will live, in time will light, And fire the lengthening train.-- Stung by that pang which never dies, Enthusiast millions shall arise, And Europe echo to their cries, NEVER DESPAIR OF SPAIN!

NOTES

TO

THE BATTLE OF TALAVERA.

STANZA II. line 1.--_France’s chosen bands._

The force opposed to the allies comprised some of the élite of the French army.

St. II. l. 2.--_He of the borrowed crown._

‘The _borrowed_ Majesty of England.’ _Shakspeare, King John._

Joseph (el Rey botilla) was in the field, and of course nominally commanding in chief; but he very prudently placed himself opposite to the Spanish lines, where there was little to do; and, accordingly, we do not hear of him again, till his gasconading proclamations from Saint Olalla, _after his retreat_.

St. II. l. 5.--_Talavera._

Talavera, (called de la Reyna, because it was for some time the _appanage_ of the Queens of Spain,) is one of the most ancient cities of the monarchy. Though situated nearly in the centre of the Peninsula, it has had the peculiar ill fortune of suffering in all ages, and from all parties, the calamities of war. Christians and Moors stormed and plundered it by turns, and not an instance occurs of an hostile force failing before it, till that one which I now attempt to describe. The ramparts were very strong, constructed of immense blocks of free-stone, and flanked, as it is said, with eighteen square towers; but the most ancient ramparts and towers have fallen into a state of dilapidation. The inhabitants themselves, indeed, have been more destructive even than Time, and, to procure stones for the erection of dwelling-houses, ‘have industriously pillaged the dismantled walls, and reduced to an insignificant heap of stones all those stately fragments of majesty and strength, which had so long been preserved in Talavera as venerable monuments of its eventful history[1].’

The gate of the western suburb has been rendered memorable by a flagitious act of cruelty, committed in 1289, at the instigation of Sancho the Brave. On that spot were exposed to view the dissected limbs of 400 nobles of Talavera, who had been put to death for their adherence to the cause of the unfortunate family of La Cerda, against a successful usurper. This action is yet commemorated in the name of Puerto de Quartos. Talavera is now a considerable and opulent city, and must have been very populous even in 1289, since it could furnish 400 noble victims of one party.

St. II. l. 13.--_St. James._

St. James, or Saint Jago, is the Patron Saint of Spain. The shrine at Compostella, on the site of which the Apostle’s body was miraculously discovered in 800, became famous throughout Europe, and was for many ages the peculiar object of the liberality of the rich, and of the pilgrimages of the poor of all nations. In the year 1434, no less than 2460 English had license from the King to proceed thither, with considerable sums of money, as well for offerings as for their necessary expenses.