University of Virginia Library

Wake, Muse Æolic, wake; inspire
The living strains of Pindar's lyre,
The lofty lay, the poet's fire,
The bold enraptur'd tone:
Strike, strike the strings in swelling notes,
Hark! loud triumphant music floats
In lengthen'd echoes thrown:
From mount, from crag, from rock around,
Each gale returns the varied sound;
The vaulted arch, the dales rebound,
With Wellesley's martial name:
While the proud concave of the sky
Rolls back, in thunder from on high,
The brazen blast of fame.
Hail genial gem! hail radiant star!
Hail beacon light of Britain's war!
Whose crimson'd glories streaming far,
Unsullied, pure, divine,
While in their course the planets run,
While flames the orb of India's sun,
Shall ever dimless shine.
Yes, Hero, yes, through every clime
Thy name, in peerless flight sublime,
Stamp'd on the airy wings of time,
Shall scorn the shafts of Fate;
Rouse each bold breast with patriot ire,
Each warrior's heart with conq'ring fire,
And teach him to be great:
And as the tow'ring bird of Jove
Scorns the dull field, the common grove,
As though he sought in realms above
The thunders of his God;
So Thou, as fresh as dawning day,
Though stars themselves shall pass away,
Though tott'ring spheres shall nod,
High-thron'd in dazzling rays shalt rise
To seek, mid'st nations wond'ring eyes,
With stoopless soar, the vaulted skies,
The wreath of high renown;
Where Glory beams with fairest light,
And Valour waves his pennon bright
Around the warrior's crown.
And while the splendours of thy name,
Thus deathless grace the page of fame,
—Thy country's pride, a tyrant's shame!
And shrine that hallow'd day
When first Thy Mother gave thee birth,
Pledge of Thy future—present worth,
To fire the poet's lay;
Fair virtue's beams around thy head
Their kindred lustre widely spread,
That throne the living and the dead;
And crown'd with spotless bliss,
Grant the freed soul its just reward,
Stamp'd by the hand of Heaven's high Lord,
In happier worlds than this.
Thy mind hath scorn'd the hell-born brood
Of bandit chiefs, who thirst for blood,
Who deeply drink the crimson flood,
The life-stream of the brave;
Who fraught with stern and ruthless rage,
Hurl harrow'd nations ev'ry age
To one wide tearless grave.
The world's great lord (when glory's blast
Proclaim'd him conq'ror as he pass'd,
And bore with laurell'd pride at last
His legion eagles home;
When bugles breath and trumpets throat
High tun'd their triumph's brazen note,
And rang through startled Rome;
While shackled kings behind his car,
And captive chieftains from afar,
(The living spoils of Afric's war)
His chariot wheels around
Dragg'd a sad length of galling chain,
And as it clanked and clanked again,
Half trembled at the sound,
Saw venom'd bane his laurels blight;
And soil with shade of darksome night
The trophies of his proudest fight;
The triumphs of his sword:
Ambition, dyed with deadly hue,
Full on his face her fell smile threw,
And scared the mighty Lord.
'Midst pomp of gorgeous state reclin'd,
Despair and anguish rack'd his mind,
And bade his tortur'd fancy find
Dark images of death:
While Conscience swell'd the trumpet's clang,
And fancied Vengeance loudly rang
His sentence with their breath.

And did Ambition o'er thy soul
Wield her stern rod and dark control,
Deep in thy ear the death peal toll,
And bid the blood stream flow?
Was it Thy wish to hear the moan
Of orphan babes, the filial groan;
To view the mother's woe
Wail her lost pride with madding cries,
Who stabb'd before its parent's eyes,
An hapless victim bleeding lies
In youth's first budding bloom:
And frantic curse the lawless hand
Whose sanguine ruffians blast their land,
And weave the deadly doom?

No! 'twas the noblest, boldest cause,
Unsheath'd the sword that Justice draws,
Which bade Thee shield the sacred laws
Of Heaven, of earth, and man;
Which rous'd in arms thy braver breast,
From tyrant grasp a world to wrest,
And vindicate their plan.
'Twas the sharp pang which nations feel,
When bow'd by stroke of gory steel,
Their social structures, stricken, reel
Beneath the triple yoke,
Which that free name to Rome so dear,
Yet dew'd with Mem'ry's balming tear,
Would ne'er, like thine, have broke.
Yes, 'twas a murder'd people's throes,
Who bath'd in blood, denied repose,
With tongue that gasps, and eye that flows,
Implor'd an outrag'd God
To snatch from fate's wide op'ning grave
The relics of the injur'd brave;
To blast the tyrant's rod:
And, by Thy arm, their life was giv'n,
The spell was broke, the chain was riv'n,
Th' almighty frown of vengeful Heav'n
Will'd that great task to Thee:
To still the pangs of falling Spain,
To burst her adamantine chain,
To set a people free.

O'er fetter'd Europe, widely gor'd
By stern Napoleon's lawless sword,
When at each wound a torrent pour'd,
To join the wid'ning flood;
Fell Discord rear'd her frantic crew,
And deeply dyed in sanguine hue,
Quaff'd the full bowl of blood.
Beneath the Gallic despot's power,
Dark Treason's form was seen to lower,
And midnight Murder wait the hour
Her dagger's thirst to cloy.
Then crested Carnage rear'd her head;
Strode, proudly strode, o'er heaps of dead,
And grimly smil'd with joy:
While round the wreath that bound his brow,
Ambition's self bade nations bow,
Bade prostrate kings kneel humbly low;
And reeking yet with gore,
Exalted sate, to crown the scene,
O'er levell'd thrones that once had been,
But glitter'd then—no more!

Screen'd 'mid the shade of atheist gloom,
The kindred monsters o'er the loom
Swore that dread oath which seal'd the doom;
And bade yon Source of Day,
(Darkling his spell-bound beauties) shroud,
And veil within a circling cloud,
The glories of his ray.
But when Thy star, from glory's throne,
Through that dark mist resplendent shone;
Th' infernal sprites, with startling groan,
All struck with conscious fear,
Sprang wildly back amid the dead,
To plunge in lowest Styx their head,
And shook, lest Valour's spear,
Firm in thy hand, at one dead stroke
(Their Gorgon shield to atoms broke,)
Should turn their savage joy to smoke,
Their triumph to despair;
And arm'd with point of keenest light,
Unfold their haunts unhallow'd night
To day's bright beaming flare.

On Spain's high hills, where Gallia's host
Swore on proud Lisbon's towers to post
Their flesh-fed eagles gilded boast,
Thy arm there bore to fight
Fair Freedom's flag—there first display'd
The wreath to martyr'd patriots paid,
Who fall their land to right.
Thy martial bugle all around
Bade men grow heroes at the sound,
Swell'd every breast with ardent bound,
To spurn inglorious ease.
There rose the streamers floating high,
There wav'd beneath a favouring sky,
The banners with the breeze.
Fir'd by Thy zeal, th' embolden'd throng
With martial ardour pour'd along;
Burst the foul chain, though trebly strong,
Beneath thy piercing glance:
Turn'd the bright beam of Vict'ry's scale;
Made Fortune's self, receding, fail;
And whelm'd the hopes of France.
Lo! where entrench'd like giant rock,
Horse, foot, their steely masses lock;
The new-sprung gallants seek the shock
With flash of kindling eye;
And boldly prodigal of life,
Rush, mid the battle's glorious strife,
To conquer, or to die.
'Ere yet o'er Europe's fetter'd waste
Thy foot the steps of Freedom pac'd,
In Eastern climes bright Vict'ry trac'd
The dawning of thy fame:
On blazon'd annals, brightly told,
Thy triumphs shone in streams of gold,
While Glory stamp'd thy name.
On Assaye's plain thy guardian hand,
Though fearful odds had bade thee stand,
Forc'd the dread scourge of India's land
Defeat and flight to find:
Swept Scindeah's fierce and swarthy host,
Back'd e'en by Frenchmen's empty boast,
Like dust before the wind.

Beneath Thy flag, the flag that flows
The pride of friends, the dread of foes,
Our hallow'd cross resplendent rose,
With pure unsullied light;
That cross where meek-ey'd Mercy knelt;
Where heav'nly Justice wakeful dwelt,
And rul'd the tide of fight.
Wide o'er yon heights, whose cloud-capp'd crown
O'erhangs the glories of its town,
The waving crescents proudly frown,
Fann'd by the gale's soft breath;
While ordnance gaping on the foe
Who rashly seeks the moat below,
Point the dread storm of death.
Hark, clamour rends the troubled sky!
With manly bosom beating high,
“On to the breach!” The British cry,
Their boldest at their head:
Forward they press with boundless force,
Like some vast torrent's swollen course,
Through mountains of the dead:
Both foot to foot, and blade to blade,
The meed is fix'd, the gage is laid,
With life or death the price is paid,
The Bastions stream with gore;
Through every street, and ev'ry gate,
The cannons wing the bolt of fate,
And triumph as they roar!
Fierce was the fray, but Britain! thine,
Thine was the palm where glories twine,
And circling splendours join to shrine
That happy, fame-fraught hour;
When thy bold heroes won the fight,
Fix'd the red banner on yon height,
And scath'd a tyrant's power.
Dauntless though base, though savage brave,
The fiery Sultan dar'd the grave,
And scorn'd by recreant flight to save
A life soon doom'd to fall;
Firm at the gap, he brav'd the blow;
With proud defiance met the foe,
And fiercely fac'd them all.
And as the lion roaring rears
(Press'd by a grove of hemming spears)
His crested mane; undaunted hears
The bullets hiss around;
Breaks through the throng, the steely wood,
Through jav'lins reeking in his blood,
And glories in the wound:
So spurring on his foaming steed,
He meets, the fate by Heaven decreed,
A deadly ball; yet, happy meed,
For him who scorns to fly!
Stretch'd on the earth, with clay cold brow,
Lies that great monarch bleeding now,
Who oft had dar'd to die.

But when Rebellion rais'd her head
O'er kingdoms darken'd with their dead,
And proudly spurn'd with impious tread
Their altars, and their fanes;
When Gallia's blood-stain'd atheist crew
Soil'd monarchs in the dungeon's dew;
To nations threaten'd chains:
Thy gallant chief, their pride to freeze,
Sped his swift flight through foaming seas,
Through billows swelling with the breeze,
And roaring in their rage:
O'er falling Europe spread the shield;
Bade kings the sword of vengeance wield,
All panting to engage.
Led by his arm thy daring bands
Flew, swiftly flew o'er hailing lands,
With kindling hearts and flashing brands,
To conquest, and to Spain:
Check'd the proud course of pouring hosts,
And shouted Freedom through her coasts,
Till Europe rang again.
His gallant zeal to vict'ry's side
Turn'd struggling states, by wrongs allied,
Taught tyrant factions upstart pride
To bend a vanquish'd knee,
Beneath that flag which, wrapt in fire,
Wakes the quick flame of patriot ire,
The flag of Liberty!

Yes, those fierce troops, inured to arms,
To rapine, plunder, and alarms,
Who lur'd by blood, defil'd the charms
Of fair, but martyr'd Peace:
Who hurl'd a monarch's humbled trust
With shiver'd sceptre to the dust;
And bade an Empire cease:
Scar'd by that hand whose manly clasp
Shakes tyrants, trembling in its grasp,
Lifts injur'd monarchs from the gasp
Of death, and dark decay;
Fled, basely fled, with cow'ring heart,
Like wolves beneath the hunter's dart,
Like leopards from the day:
Saw flashing gun, and piercing spear,
Hurl fate and carnage in their rear;
Saw the red bolt of vengeance near,
To right a nation's wrong;
Saw Conquest shrinking from their view,
And sweeping fire with vivid hue
Mow their faint line along;
While glowing thousands all around
Dash'd their foil'd standards to the ground;
While floating 'mid the battle's sound,
'Mid chargers as they prance,
Saint George's banners stream'd on high,
Flash'd back the splendour of the sky,
And swept the soil of France.
First on Vimeira's craggy height,
His risen sun with vict'ry's light
Shone, proudly radiant through the fight,
To cheer a gallant cause;
Spurr'd youthful heroes' ardent breast
To rise at valour's high behest,
And conquer with applause:
Thence, thence was trac'd the burning ray,
Till thron'd in fame's meridian way,
It fram'd intolerable day,
To scare the tyrant's eye;
Which vainly strove with impious look
To pierce Fate's dark and hidden book,
Its secrets to descry,
Till in huge burst the threaten'd flame
With light'nings speed all vengeful came,
Whelm'd the proud boast, th' imperial name,
And forc'd its recreant lord,
Dash'd from his triumph's empty pride,
To kneel to those whom he defied,
And stoop beneath their sword.
Busaco's field shall add a crown,
To stamp the Hero's high renown,
As the wild meads, the woods that frown,
All echo to the lyre,
Which stamps their fight in swelling song,
And boldly raptur'd pours along
In strains of lofty fire.

On Talavera's tow'ring hill,
By golden Teio's rapid rill,
His verdant fame shall flourish, still
The highest of the high:
There his brave hand with valiant stroke
The galling chain of bondage broke,
And bade its minions fly;
Dash'd from the mountains craggy steep
(Like light'ning flashing o'er the deep)
The wakeful foe, who scorning sleep,
Would plant his eagles there;
Whose gilded flight would soar in blood,
And Britain's hopes amid the flood
With iron talon tear.
On Salamanca's blood-dy'd plain,
What peals! what havoc foams again!
'Tis Wellesley's self who dares for Spain
The worst a chief can brave:
His eagle glance, with instant thought,
One fatal error quickly caught,
And that—the Gallic grave.
Strain'd to the stretch, and spurr'd to speed,
Each warrior plies the gallant steed;
O'er piles of dead, o'er heaps that bleed,
With gore-dy'd hoof he flies:
Scar'd at the sight, yon trembling foe
Breaks up the rank to shun the blow,
And charged—encircled—dies.

On bright Vittoria's fertile space,
Soil'd with sad slaughter, blood, disgrace,
The fear-struck Gaul with panic pace,
Flies, cow'ring, 'mid th' alarms,
While horse and foot in heavy clang,
And stab and stroke, all mingling, rang
The deep ton'd din of arms:
Saw the proud pomp which, vainly great,
He brought to deck his mimic state,
Doom'd by the scourging hand of Fate
To grace the Victor's train.
Hurl'd from those joys, he spurs, he speeds,
But press'd by thousands, widely bleeds,
And marks his flight with slain:
Reft of his crown, his peace, and fame;
With haggard look, and heart-wrung shame,
The puppet King from steel and flame
Now spurs his flying horse:
Hark! hostile coursers press behind,
Rush darting on the wings of wind,
And track the Traitor's course:
Their gallant Lords now ride in view:
They see—they spur—they urge anew—
The cow'ring upstart pallid grew—
Hark! 'twas a carbine rung!
Some busy demon turn'd the ball;
Or Spain had triumph'd in his fall,
And seen the viper stung.
But see! yon Band now pours to fight,
Nerv'd by despair, despising flight,
Round the fall'n Chief their ranks unite:
Then speeding to the strife,
Stay the dread bolt of instant death,
Redeem the Traitor's forfeit breath,
And save a bitter'd life.
Yes, torn by guilt's corrosive dart,
Rack'd by remorse, by scorpion smart,
Stampt by the curse that ne'er shall part,
His fame he cannot save:
Oh! it were well if aught, when dead,
Could heap oblivion on his head,
And shroud him in the grave.

Lo! yon proud Mountain's cloud-capp'd line,
Where hoary forests tow'ring twine,
Where gloomy glades with squadrons shine
With armour flashing wide:
England, and Spain, in steep advance,
Tread their bold way to trembling France;
And scale the craggy side,
Till tir'd of flight her columns stand;
Till turn'd by shame each haughty band,
Like tyger press'd by hunter's hand,
Springs forward on the foe:
Gall'd by reproach, they dare to die;
Reckless of life, they scorn to fly,
Or lay their ensigns low.
But Britons, eager to engage,
Unbroke, a deadly conflict wage;
Brave the fierce rush of madding rage;
And, firm as sea-beat rock,
“On! on!” they cry; “the day's our own—
“Each bayonet shall prove it won—
“They cannot stand our shock.”
Oh! still 'twere awful to behold
A sight too wond'rous to be told,
As the gay squadrons trick'd with gold,
Round the steep Mountain rise:
As though, for earthly bounds too great,
They sought a wider space for hate
Amid the boundless skies!
The strife is o'er—the day is won,
Now sets, for aye, the Gallic sun.
See! routed, swept, her columns run;
Run scatter'd o'er the plains,
As Valour's self, to crown the tale,
Gives England's banners to the gale,
And crimson'd Conquest reigns.
And as, convuls'd, in bellowing roar,
Loud Ætna's heights the fire streams pour,
Awhile the flaky torrents soar,
Then thund'ring to the ground,
Sweep the tall wood, the tott'ring town:
Hurl the burst Mountain, blazing, down,
In one wide ruin round:
Earth gapes—the wide abyss below
Yawns, as though smit by Demon's blow;
Yon orb of day, now sinking low
Sets, dy'd with streaks of blood!
While the huge ocean flares, and foams;
Rolls its red waves o'er prostrate domes
Drown'd in the fiery flood:
So Wellesley's Bands, by Wellesley led,
Forth from their height triumphant sped,
Scar'd a strange soil with conqu'ring tread,
And proud in Vict'ry's trust,
Bore Freedom on the wings of Fate,
Whelm'd a base Tyrant's borrow'd state,
And hurl'd him to the dust.

Strike, louder strike the thrilling lyre!
Breathe in each strain a bolder fire:
Let soul-wrapt Fancy dare aspire,
And shrine with deathless praise,
That fight which crown'd our Champion's name,
And stampt upon the page of Fame
An all immortal blaze.
Let the bold Muse, on tow'ring wing,
Through the wide world his glories sing:
Let the far Poles with Pæans ring;
And Fame, to valour true,
Bid the loud blast in triumph rise,
And earth re-echo to the skies,
The Field of Waterloo.
Lo! where, enwrapt by sable night,
The British Bands all pant for fight;
Count the black hours that shroud their might,
And couch'd upon the clay,
With fev'rish minds, and beating breast,
They scorn the thoughts of sluggish rest,
And hail the dawn of day.
Dark was the night: the arrowy hail
Pour'd hurtling on each mount and vale:
And the rude demon of the gale
Wak'd the wild winds to rage:
Loud Boreas, riding on the blast,
With whirlwind's wings swept roaring past,
A kindred strife to wage:
But when the Sun's bright burnish'd car
Through Heav'n's wide portals shone from far,
Flash'd on each casque the flame of war;
Up starting from the ground
They point the gun, they snatch the blade,
While Soignee's dark and woody glade,
Like light'ning beam'd around;
Stride the proud steed who, free from fears,
Champs his bright bit, and snorting rears
Mid the mann'd grove of bristling spears,
All panting for alarms:
With swelling bosom then they cry,
“Friends, we may fall—but never fly.—
“To arms, to arms, to arms—!”

Lo! on yon hill, with haggard face,
The musing Tyrant strides apace,
While all around, his pomp to grace,
The minion Marshals stand;
As erst the fallen angel stood
Encircled by his hell-doom'd brood,
And brav'd th' Almighty's hand!
When starting from his soul-fix'd trance,
A ling'ring look he cast on France,
Then o'er the field, where vict'ry's chance
Hung pendent in the air;
Emblazon'd arms with glancing pride
The god of day's bright beams defied,
And shot a mystic flare.
There Britain's blood-red banner flows,
And frowning death on atheist foes,
The crimson'd Lion rampant rose,
With stern, and vengeful frown:
Elate with pride, with rapine bold,
The Gallic Eagles blaz'd in gold,
And seem'd to grant a crown.
Then bursting forth—“I'll think no more—
“Fate wills it so—let cannon roar—
“Perish yon baffled host—'tis o'er—
“My Fortune gilds the day;—
“Ho! Marshals there! give out the word,
“Charge! sweep yon slaves beneath the sword,
And onward to the fray.”
Fir'd at the speech, both foot and horse
Form the long line—the massy force
Sweeps o'er the plain in rapid course
With hopes, and bosom warm:
But Wellesley's care, and eagle eye,
The rising whirlwind can descry,
And marks the coming storm.
Swift through the ranks with light'ning's speed
He boldly guides his bounding steed;
“Stand Friends, stand firm, nor blush to bleed
“At Europe's sacred call—
“Each to his post—they come, they come,
“Sound the loud trumpet—beat the drum—
“Right nobly face them all!”

Each gallant breast then beating high,
Sworn on their ground to win or die,
They stand resolv'd—and such a cry
Of Wellesley! Wellesley! rose,
That the dread sound, as o'er the plain
Its thund'ring echoes rang again,
Half chill'd the charging foes.

Now ardent France in mad'ning shock
Pours on the foe, whose squadrons lock
Firm, as the front of tow'ring rock,
With hand and heart, and head:
With haughty look the charge they brave,
Turn on the foes the deaths they gave,
And heap their steps with dead:
Foot set to foot, with hostile rage,
And soul-fix'd hate, the strife they wage:
Death pays the fine; but life the gage
That crowns the victor's might;
For well they knew that Europe's fate
On vict'ry's balance pendent sate,
And mark'd the chance of fight.
High on his steeds and blood-dy'd car
Sweeps o'er the plain the god of war:
Shakes his huge lance, and joys afar
In din of clashing arms:
While dread Bellona o'er the field
Rears her red crest, her gorgon shield,
And thunders in alarms.
Charg'd with loud death, and bellowing roar,
Their fiery storm the cannons pour,
Shake the deep line, and wet with gore
Fly, killing with their breath;
Tear the green earth, as though they sought
That curs'd abode where demons fought,
In the black haunts of death.
Stretch'd on bright honour's early bier,
Bedew'd by valour's moist'ning tear,
The hero lies who, scorning fear,
Leaps reckless to the grave;
And life fast ebbing from his heart,
Smiles at grim death, defies his dart,
And falls, amid the brave!

Begirt with flames, which soaring high
In smoky wreaths ascend the sky,
Yon stately pile, where warriors vie,
Now totters to the ground:
While 'mid the gloom, each flitting spark
Illumes the foeman's visage dark,
And lights the fray around.

Here Picton fell!—He boldly bled,
As to the charge his bands he led:
Thrice glorious mark! the bullet sped;
Fate winged it to its aim.
But o'er his tomb shall Mem'ry tell,
How Picton fought—how Picton fell!
And balm the martyr'd name.
But what red glare with sudden stroke
Scares the dark gloom, the sable smoke,
As heav'n's red bolts the night had broke,
Conflicting storms to light—
Or Sol's dread car, when half the world
The madding steeds to ruin hurl'd,
Shone fierce and grimly bright?
Lock'd in gay steel, now trebly tried,
In maily armour flashing wide,
Yon tow'ring bands exulting ride,
With shout, with din, and clang;
Whilst, as their pond'rous squadrons speed,
And foams for fight each bounding steed,
Corslet and cuirass rang.

Next, lur'd by blood, the fiery Pole
Scorns the fell thunders as they roll;
Shakes his bright lance, and nerves his soul
No prostrate foe to spare.
But Britain's chiefs their charge defy,
“Break up the line,” they loudly cry,
“And rally in the square.”
Firm in that square they brave the blow:
A glance of stern defiance throw:
And boldly wait the rushing foe
With levell'd gun and blade:
While fair Albania's martial pride
Now joys to fight by England's side,
And deems her valour paid.
With waving Tartan's graceful fold,
And azure plaid in circles roll'd,
With plumy bonnet, bound with gold,
Wide waving to the wind;
Her gallant Bands in bright array,
Sworn all to fall, or win the day,
Quail'd the fierce Lancer's mind.

Hark! as the foremost squadrons dash,
With spears all pointed for the crash;
Each levell'd gun, each flaring flash
Told a dread day of ire:
Full on the Foes, who spur to die,
Like rapid rain the bullets fly,
Girt with a bellowing fire;
Mad'ning with wounds the startled horse
Hurls from his back the bleeding corse:—
They shrink—but lo!—with sweeping force
The Cuirassiers advance:
“Fall those that may—the day is won—
“Forth on the slaves—rush boldly on—
“And fleece them with the lance!”
Glanc'd from their mail with ringing sound,
The baffl'd balls, now deaden'd, bound
Like hailstones from the frozen ground,
Or shiver'd on a rock:
Fiercely they charge; while bending low,
The vengeful Polack aims the blow;
Anticipates the shock.
And (though She gain the glorious meed
To valour's worth by Fame decreed)
Now Britain's self is doom'd to bleed
Beneath the sweeping sword.
Oh! could the song, the Poet tell
What casques were cleft, what heroes fell,
What gallant hearts were gor'd!
But still, unbroke, her warriors stand:
Pay death by death, turn hand to hand:
While bow'd by stroke of flashing brand
Full many a crest is shorn:
When stabbing spear with musket met,
When sabre clash'd with bayonet,
And many a banner torn!
They fought not here to claim a glove,
Or win a Lady's silken love,
'Twas Europe's fate that bade them prove
Their conquest with their blood.
Here crimson'd Carnage held her reign,
Triumphant strode o'er heaps of slain,
And revell'd in the flood.

But see!—what dusty columns rise,
And seem to shade the cloudless skies,
When flashing death in Gallia's eyes
The Guards now burst to day:
Their jet-black steeds all foam for fight,
And rush, exulting in their might,
With Scotia's gallant Grey;
With nodding plumes, and banners spread,
With blazing crests, and clamour dread,
They shake the earth with thund'ring tread;
The whirlwind rushes by:
And while the coursers scour the plain,
Loud shout—“Revenge for comrades slain,
“We'll triumph, or we'll die!”
Swift at their head bold Uxbridge speeds:
Their ardent Bands to conquests leads,
To valour's prize, and martial deeds,
With manly look and mien:
And, as at once resolv'd he stood
To yield his breath for England's good,
Immortaliz'd the scene.
Full on the foe, now cloy'd with gore,
The stern Battalions fiercely pour:
Then peal'd the fight in deaf'ning roar;
The shouts of battle bray:
In Fortune's balance widely tost,
They fell—they conquer'd—won—or lost,
As ebb'd the eddying fray.
Horse set to Horse, and Man to Man,
From rank to rank grim Slaughter ran:
But who in British hearts can scan
The cow'ring chill of fear?
With brandish'd blade, and vengeful frown,
They strike the cuirass, batter'd down,
And hew the shiver'd spear.
Nor triple steel, nor lance avail,
Where dastard fear the mind can quail;
The sev'nfold shield, the steely mail,
But hides a coward's heart:
In Briton's soul there burns a fire
Which flames in death; outlives his ire;
And shines upon his dart!

Now Conquest, dy'd in crimson hue,
On England's helm triumphant grew;
Her Bands, exulting as they flew,
The sword of vengeance wield:
The prostrate Gauls expire in death,
Rode, trampled down, they yield their breath;
Their thousands strew the field.
There—sons of Erin—gallant train!
Ye well aveng'd your Leader slain:
With deadlier stroke Ye paid again
The blow Ye wept to see:
Ah! noble Chief, as o'er Thy grave
The tear-drop falls, that shrines the brave—
Sleep on—blest Ponsonby!

Where now is Gallia's Lord renown'd?
Has He, amid the raging sound,
The deathless wreath of Valour found?
Dar'd the dark jaws of Fate?
No; on yon shelter'd hill He stands,
And views from far his slaughter'd bands
With look of fellest hate.
Shorn of their pride, their vaunting mind,
His squadrons fleeing on the wind,
Scarce 'scape the Foe who spurs behind,
And havoc in their rear:
His downcast Chiefs imploring aid,—
Vain promised hope—too long delay'd—
Wail the black ruin near.
And like the torrent's swelling course,
Which bursts the mound that stems its force;
With deaf'ning roar and clamour hoarse
Rolls its white waves around;
When some broad dam, or alpine wood
Checks the loud tide, the dashing flood,
And turns it to the ground:
So the foil'd Tyrant's passions swell;
Grant his torn soul a wider Hell;
From his spent tongue the accents fell—
To spend their curse in air;
He stamps—he foams—he strikes his breast—
Cries—“Forward!—Forward!—give me rest,
“Ye Scorpions of Despair!”

Not so—not lurking mid the fray—
The British Hero marks the day:
He scorns from Battle's tide to stay,
While Carnage stalks in gore;
While dying warriors mark the strife;
And martial glory cheapens life,
Fast fleeting in the roar:
Swift o'er the field where madding France
Now fiercely grasps at Vict'ry's chance,
Like light'ning's bolt He speeds the glance:
Then, bounding on his steed
Where Danger rear'd his Gorgon head,
He boldly rush'd where Conquest led,
To triumph or to bleed.
Lo! swept by charge of thund'ring steel,
Yon toil-spent masses fainting reel,
The weaken'd bolt they scarce can deal,
When Wellesley bursts to sight:
“Stand friends, once more—'tis England calls,
“Fame weaves the wreath for him that falls,
“Turn—rally to the fight—”
With fire-new valour fierce they turn;
With freshen'd hope their Bosoms burn;
A living Crown—a glorious urn—
Came flashing in their eyes:
Brac'd every nerve and heart on flame,
The Gallic wolves again to tame,
And hurl them from their prize.
Where ruin rears its black'ning form,
And havoc hovers in the storm,
There, there, He flies, each heart to warm
To dare the deadly die:
Though round Him swells the purple tide;
And Heroes dropping by his side,
Bath'd in their life-blood lie.

Here gallant Gordon, early great,
With patriot valour brav'd his fate:
Shed his bright blood to shield the state;
And sank—a setting sun!
But grateful Glory joins with Fame,
To blend the Hero's hallow'd name
With fallen Cameron!
Though Ossian's harp now sleeps below,
And Celtic strains no more shall flow,
Wake the sad chord that strikes to woe,
And prompt the pitying tear;
Yet Morven's maids shall weep their doom;
In beauty's bosom raise their tomb,
And consecrate their bier.
Hark! on the right, what cheering cries
In spreading notes of Triumph rise,
Pierce Heaven's wide vault—the concave skies
With pealing echoes tear;
What streaming standards sweep along,
What blazing banners shade the throng
That, charging, thunders there?
'Tis Blucher comes—he comes, at last—
Now Gallia's hour of pride is past,
Her sun is set—the die is cast—
The Prussians cleave her crown:
Full on her Flank the cannons roar,
Their fiery deluge fiercely pour,
And mow her squad'rons down.
Their pressing Bands now crowd the field;
Their brandish'd blades aloft they wield;
Spur their proud steeds—the onset pealed—
Earth thunders as they fly;
Loud shout the press—“Come, Comrades, come—
“Sound trumpets—Ligny!—beat the drum—
“REVENGE and VICTORY!”
The fainting Gauls scarce stand the blow:
No more a proud defiance show:
Their broken lines half fly the foe,
Who glories in the fray:
With wings wide hov'ring in the air,
The keen-eyed vultures of Despair
Now mark their carrion prey.

Thrice happy hour! great Wellesley cries,
Now Vict'ry twines the laurel prize!
Then speeds his glance, his gladden'd eyes,
Where Blucher's squadrons shine:
Midst martial notes and cheering sounds,
His foaming charger proudly bounds
Along the British line:
“Now, gallant Friends, for Britain's right,
“One effort more—one stroke of might
“Close your brave toil—and crown the fight—
“Then—forward to the charge—
“Dash the bright spurs in charger's flanks,
“Sweep with loud shock yon trembling ranks,
“Cry, England and Saint George!”
Then rose the shout, the din, and clang;
Then, Vict'ry! Vict'ry! loudly rang;
Till the bold cry with piercing pang
Smote the fell Tyrant's heart:
When o'er his brow such tempests grew,
Like as some fiend of blackest hue
Had stampt him with his dart.
Their meed, their prize now full in view,
One eager look—one glance they threw—
Then o'er the plain resistless flew,
Their Chieftain at their head:
Each gallant heart now throbbing high,
Oh! could they fail to win the die,
By such an Hero led!
The routed Gauls now strew the sand:
They shrink—they fall—they cannot stand:
In one wide mass their fear-struck Band
Flies scatter'd o'er the plain:
But dark Confusion speeds behind;
Pale chilling Panic palls their mind;
And havoc heaps their slain.
Here England halts—her blood that flows—
Her toil—her wounds—all, claim repose.
But Prussia's Bands still track the foes,
Now quicken'd by their fear:
First in their van grim Terror strides;
While blood-smear'd Vengeance sternly rides
With Ruin in their rear:
Though car-borne Phœbus, fiercely bright,
Deep in the ocean sinks to night;
Fair Cynthia sheds her temper'd light,
And beams upon the ground:
Casts the soft ray on each pale corse—
On helm and blade, on man and horse—
To light the slaughter round.

Fresh from the Field's triumphant test,
By Conquest crown'd, by Glory blest;
With conscious pride and raptur'd breast,
The Hero marks their flight:
Sees British valour seek the sky,
And kindred ardour, soaring high,
Track its red course with light.
But when the Slaughter's sanguine hue
O'er his full eye its horrors threw:
When dying warriors met his view,
Yet welt'ring in their gore;
Who fir'd by Fame's inspiring charms,
Bore his bright standards—shar'd his arms—
And now—to share no more!
In melting grief his manly mind
To streaming sorrow joy resign'd;
Pale weeping willows softly twin'd
To shroud the Soldier's grave:
And as he bent to bless their bier,
Dew'd their bright Relics with the tear
Which Friendship, drooping, gave.

Stretch'd on the Earth's dark cold clay bed,
With youth yet circling round his head,
Illustrious Brunswick greatly bled:
Pride of his People's love!
When freedom rouz'd the bugle's breath,
He heard the call—he rush'd to death,
And fell—to shine above.
Weep, Britain, weep, awake to woe:
Hush the loud sounds of triumph low:
Bid the sad strains of sorrow flow:
Bid dirges peal the toll:
Wail the great loss, the spirit gone,
A martyr'd Hero's fallen son,
And strike upon the soul.
Deep o'er his urn let Glory trace
His feats of arms; his noble race;
Let sculptur'd trophies lend their grace
And crown the Hero's name:
'Grave the bright oath that wak'd his doom,
Spurr'd his great Mind to scorn the tomb,
And strung his soul to Fame.

Freed from the danger's theaten'd stroke,
Her galling bond by Wellesley broke,
Now Europe spurns the servile yoke,
On Gallia wreaks her chain;
The meteor light that stream'd in blood,
Sets deeply sinking in the flood,
Sets,—ne'er to rise again.
Yes, Tyrant! Yes, thy thread is spun:
Thy transient course of vict'ry run:
Black ruin blots thy darken'd sun,
And rises in the storm:
While Conscience marks thee for despair;
Knocks at thy heart; and raving there,
High rears her frantic form.
To sting the world thou'st done thy best:
Now scourging Justice mars thy rest;
Thy venom cankers in thy breast
As curses blast thy birth:
And the fell Fiend that rais'd thy Crown,
With scoffing malice tramps thee down,
A reptile on the earth.
Had'st thou but dar'd the shades of night,
And welcom'd Fate amid the fight:
One glist'ning streak of spotless light
Had gloss'd thy name below:
Then in the tomb thy guilt had slept:
Some sinful tear thy fall had wept,
To wrong thy brighter Foe.
But Hist'ry's curse, in every age,
Shall stamp thy crimes—thy guilty stage:
And vengeful annals branding page
Thy coward feats proclaim.
First in the vaunt—but first to flee—
Curst as thou art, still shalt be,
And bold—but in thy shame.
Thinks't thou again to deal thy nod?
To hurl thy frown, and shake thy rod?
No; Heav'n's swift bolts, that right their God,
Shall blast thee with their breath:
And the same pangs thy hand hath dealt,
In that black bosom doubly felt,
Shall stab thee deep as death.
Remorse shall rise 'mid scorpion's smart,
To lift thee, writhing, on its dart:
Freeze thy chill'd blood, and wring thy heart
With barb of rage and fear;
Till thy crack'd mind to madness strung,
Shall shriek for fate to “cool thy tongue,”
And end thy torments here.
The blood that flow'd to cloy thy pride,
When Jaffa swell'd the purple tide,
Shall hem thy steps, and haunt thy side,
In waves of carnage roll'd;
The poison'd victims' closing eye,
Convuls'd in death's last agony,
Shall fix thee dumb and cold.
The sable Chieftain's stalking shroud
Shall wake in midnight's black'ning cloud,
Roll his red eye, and grimly proud
Smile on his murd'rer's pain:
While widow's shriek and orphan's moan,
The strangled captives' struggling groan,
Shall harrow up thy brain.

Could none but those who foremost stood
To seal with life their country's good,
Cloy that insatiate thirst for blood?
No victims but the brave?
Aye—must thou dread with nightly fears,
Tyrolia's curse, Tyrolia's tears,
Around her Hofer's grave.
Though o'er the Hero's ashy breast
The dews of Heav'n serenely rest,
And o'er his cold sod's grassy vest
The choral requiems roll,—
Still in thy ears his death shots ring,
And fancied vollies loudly bring
Hell torments to thy soul.

What pallid spectre rears his head?
With gory bosom haunts thy bed?
His martial mien, and warrior tread,
Now burst his turf-clad tomb:
'Tis weeping Bourbon's slaughter'd Heir!
Think—if thy coward heart can dare—
Oh! think on D'Enghien's doom!
In thunder's voice his accents roll:
Tear thy base mind, and chill thy soul:
Seem, sternly seem, to sound the toll
That knells thy dying day:
“Mark these wide wounds, and think on me!
“Monster! Earth gapes—Hell roars for thee—
“While demons claim their prey.”
Ye, who to sympathy appeal;
For crime and cruelty can feel;
Ye iron tribe, with hearts of steel,
Who wail a tyrant's fall;
Hark at yon shrieks that rend the skies—
'Tis murder'd Palm for freedom dies!
Here weep—at pity's call:
Borne with your Idol o'er the deep,
There, let an ill plac'd sorrow sleep:
His harden'd breast had scorn'd to weep
At bleeding virtue's cry:
But if ye seek a tear to boast,
List to the groans of D'Enghien's Ghost:
And heave one sacred sigh!

Yet cease, ye Nine, a gloomy vein;
Sound the stretch'd strings to bolder strain:
Wake the loud blast of Fame again,
To Triumph's tow'ring swell:
Let fancy wing her buoyant flight,
And swiftly seek, in prouder height,
A prouder theme to tell.
No more a suff'ring world bewail:
Tune ev'ry chord to glory's tale:
Let each light breeze, each passing gale
Now bear the blast of Fame:
Let shouting Freedom fill the note;
And zephyrs, wond'ring as they float,
Re-echo Wellesley's name.

Hark, through the air what accents roll!
What strains of triumph strike the soul!
Such the bright Thund'rer's stern control
Peal'd, sounding from on high,
When that red arm, inflam'd to ire,
Hurl'd Earth's dark Giants, wrapt in fire,
With ruin from the sky.
Lo, 'mid the crash, what golden blaze
Round yon fair forms with splendour plays!
Fame, borne with Vict'ry, blends her rays
In airy circles whirl'd:
Bids her loud clarion swell the note,
To echoes strain its brazen throat,
And rouze a wond'ring world.
Wake Nations, wake! to wonder rise,
'Mid grateful millions' tow'ring cries:
Let martial music pierce the skies—
Yet louder peal again—
Let golden strings now swell the key,
And big with heav'nly symphony,
To valour lift the strain.
Hail the bold Chief who saw your yoke;
High rear'd in air his vengeful stroke;
Your iron fetters bravely broke,
And quell'd your Tyrant's frown;
Tore from his brow with matchless might
An injur'd Monarch's trampled right,
And hurl'd his Eagles down.
'Twas His, to burst your galling chain:
'Twas His, to tear your bonds in twain:
'Twas His, to dare th' embattled plain:
To conquer—or to fall:
'Twas in your cause, his sword he drew:
'Twas in your cause, to fight he flew:
He flew—and righted all.
His, was the pride, alone, to save:
To spread before the sinking brave,
Whom rebel upstarts would enslave,
The shield that baffled Death:
Oh! hath not Heav'n some special crown—
Some wreath eternal—for renown
Unsoil'd by mortal breath!

Wide o'er yon plains where, bath'd in gore
When Murder flew from shore to shore,
Her crimson'd steeds to battle bore
The goddess of the fray;
Where high in air th' Oppressor's ban
Spurn'd the soil'd rights of prostrate man,
And stampt them with his sway:
See golden Peace, with healing art,
Pours blissful balm to ease the dart
Which rankled in each bleeding heart;
And wipes the deadly dew.
See Plenty crowns the gladden'd year,
And stills the voice of famish'd fear,
With smile of angel hue.
In yon fair grove's sequester'd shade,
Where once 'twas blood bedew'd the glade,
And sheath'd in slain the purple blade
Mid Despot, Atheist's nod:
Torn with curs'd steel, like Demon's spell
Fresh from the depths of burning hell,
The Creature from his God!
Lov'd child of Heaven Religion, blest,
Best balm to set our griefs at rest,
Lifts the pure incense of her breast
In notes of heartfelt praise:
While grateful Pæans loudly ring;
And Nations sav'd adore their King
With loud all-hallow'd lays.

Bright Halcyon days! when sorrows cease,
And bloody Factions kneel to peace!
When milder arts with joys encrease!
And Commerce crowds the seas;
Spreads o'or the deep her swelling sails,
As fortune fans the genial gales,
And smiles amid the breeze!
And Britain! Thou, of ev'ry clime,
Where virtue braves the lapse of time,
Where Faith and Arms, and Arts sublime
Their blended lustre spread:
While Mem'ry heaves the grateful sigh
O'er the cold sod where Heroes lie,
And honours deck their bed:
Bid thy fam'd Bards their tears forego,
Whose solemn dirge, sedate and slow,
Wak'd the chill cadence of their woe
To weep thy Charlotte's doom:
Lift Thou their lyres that sadly hung
On weeping willows mute, unstrung,
In sorrows o'er her tomb:
Hail with loud strain these happier days;
Thy Hero's glory claims its praise;
And Fancy fires the swelling lays
Where deeds immortal shine.
So while in air the accents float,
Thy name shall grace the living note,
His triumphs spring from thine.
Bright seat of Mars! Thrice happy State!
In Arts—in Arms—in Virtue, great!
Whose pow'r has burst the book of Fate
Though Nations round thee bled:
Crush'd haughty Gallia's tyrant sway;
Torn her dark Eagles from their prey;
The Laurels from her head:
No foreign foe shall soil thy strand
While freedom lifts her guardian hand;
Nerves the bold hearts that girt thy Land,
And shrines thy martyrs' pain:
While martial valour nobly glows;
Shakes from his lance the death of foes;
And gilds thy George's reign.

Wide o'er the world, with conq'ring gleam
Like crimson Glory's gilded dream,
Thy blood-red banners proudly stream
Unfurling to the gale;
While Vict'ry swells their floating fold,
Nods on thy Sons her crest of gold,
And Wonder writes the tale.
Thy vessels rule the willing seas;
Spread their white sails, and court the breeze;
Breast the loud billows at their ease
O'er ocean's wat'ry plain:
From the dark tubes their thunders roar
In peals of triumph o'er the shore,
Redoubling o'er the main:
And as they skim the wint'ry wave,
Thy hero Nelson's spirit brave,
Freed from yon stone's ignoble grave,
Looks downward from on high:
Marks with blest joy his own lov'd Isle;
Gilds his bright features with a smile
Illumining the sky.

Then stampt on Hist'ry's burnish'd page,
Though bloody bands their factions wage,
Yon Name shall rouze each wond'ring age
To kneel at Valour's shrine:
And the bright wreath of Him, who hurl'd
Its Tyrant from a bleeding world,
With Nelson's name shall twine.
Yes, gallant Chief! No tongue shall tire,
Nor fancy slack her glowing fire;
No hand shall drop the fainting lyre,
When mem'ry cites thy deeds:
When Glory moves the list'ning throng,
To Praise's tabrets joins her song,
And Honour crowns thy meeds.

Bright Prop of Europe's tott'ring power,
When hov'ring ruin seem'd to lower:
The pride, the hope, of every hour!
Thy race of glory won,
All hail! while Albion's joyful cries
In spreading notes of triumph rise;
While Earth proclaims Thee to the Skies,
IMMORTAL WELLINGTON!