 | Remains (1850) |  |
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Early Poems.
THE BATTLE OF SALAMANCA,
FOUGHT AGAINST THE FRENCH, ON THE 22ND DAY OF JULY, 1812, BY THE COMBINED ARMIES OF GREAT BRITAIN, PORTUGAL, AND SPAIN, UNDER THE COMMAND OF THE MARQUIS OF WELLINGTON.
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DEDICATION TO THE MOST NOBLE THE MARQUIS OF WELLESLEY.
An unfledged bard, who just had broke
From birch and grammar's awful yoke,
Would spread his glad unfetter'd wing,
And boldly try to croak or sing.
His bardic rites devoutly paid,
His Muses duly sought for aid,
When bitten nail and swollen cheek
A modern rapture seem'd to wake,
With scowling eye and muttering tongue,
For Fancy's topmost cloud he sprung,
As pride or madness led the way—
And here, behold, his first essay.
From birch and grammar's awful yoke,
Would spread his glad unfetter'd wing,
And boldly try to croak or sing.
His bardic rites devoutly paid,
His Muses duly sought for aid,
When bitten nail and swollen cheek
A modern rapture seem'd to wake,
With scowling eye and muttering tongue,
For Fancy's topmost cloud he sprung,
As pride or madness led the way—
And here, behold, his first essay.
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For, rushing on with epic aim,
He grasp'd Britannia's lists of fame,
To seek a Hero for the lays
Which, thus enrapt, he meant to raise:
A Hero round whose noble head
When Fancy's youthful hand had spread
A garland of the fairest flowers
That ever bloom'd in Tempe's bowers,
Or hung their heads in airy pride
Around Castalia's mirror tide,
The voice of truth might still declare
Not half his honours gather'd there—
Though wide his search, he found but one,
One man like this—'twas Wellington!
He grasp'd Britannia's lists of fame,
To seek a Hero for the lays
Which, thus enrapt, he meant to raise:
A Hero round whose noble head
When Fancy's youthful hand had spread
A garland of the fairest flowers
That ever bloom'd in Tempe's bowers,
Or hung their heads in airy pride
Around Castalia's mirror tide,
The voice of truth might still declare
Not half his honours gather'd there—
Though wide his search, he found but one,
One man like this—'twas Wellington!
For in his warm and generous mind
Such various virtues shone combined;
So great, yet simple seem'd he still,
So fired by valour, nerved by skill.
In others' cause so feeling known,
So lavish of himself alone,
That mortals seem'd on him to gaze
The phœnix of these later days,
Raised up the masterpiece of fate
For them to praise and imitate!
Like the bright arch that glows on high
When glooms and clouds invest the sky,
Mankind with veneration views
The lofty wonder's brightening hues,
And sees in his resplendent form
The queller of the blackening storm!
Such various virtues shone combined;
So great, yet simple seem'd he still,
So fired by valour, nerved by skill.
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So lavish of himself alone,
That mortals seem'd on him to gaze
The phœnix of these later days,
Raised up the masterpiece of fate
For them to praise and imitate!
Like the bright arch that glows on high
When glooms and clouds invest the sky,
Mankind with veneration views
The lofty wonder's brightening hues,
And sees in his resplendent form
The queller of the blackening storm!
And could not reason, could not shame
Deter thee from that sacred theme?
But thou, poor witling, must profane
Such greatness with thy pigmy strain?
Perhaps thou deem'dst his name enough
To consecrate thy wretched stuff?
Or hopedst, at worst, with him to live,
Like Mævius pinn'd to Virgil's sleeve?
Deter thee from that sacred theme?
But thou, poor witling, must profane
Such greatness with thy pigmy strain?
Perhaps thou deem'dst his name enough
To consecrate thy wretched stuff?
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Like Mævius pinn'd to Virgil's sleeve?
I own my folly, own my crimes;
I own them weak and wicked rhymes:
Yet, as the sire with partial care
Regards his crippled son and heir,
In spite of every shapeless feature,
I own, I own, I love the creature.
But bold by desperation grown,
I spurn at half a fault alone;
And bursting caution's barriers through,
For refuge would retreat to you,
Would join upon my humble page
The brother glories of the age,
Conscious that could my hopeless toil
From you obtain a favouring smile,
That Critic scarce would dare aspire
To blame what Wellesley should admire!
I own them weak and wicked rhymes:
Yet, as the sire with partial care
Regards his crippled son and heir,
In spite of every shapeless feature,
I own, I own, I love the creature.
But bold by desperation grown,
I spurn at half a fault alone;
And bursting caution's barriers through,
For refuge would retreat to you,
Would join upon my humble page
The brother glories of the age,
Conscious that could my hopeless toil
From you obtain a favouring smile,
That Critic scarce would dare aspire
To blame what Wellesley should admire!
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INTRODUCTION.
O'er Europe's fields, all ravaged and forlorn,
While Discord's dæmon leads his funeral train,
And every neighbouring state is doom'd to mourn,
Or dread the horrors of a tyrant's chain;
See the lorn Muse to Britain's sainted plain
From scenes of death and uproar gladly flee!
There wake her shatter'd chords to voice again,
And paint, in glowing tints of ecstasy,
The sweets of ease, the pride of conquering Liberty!
While Discord's dæmon leads his funeral train,
And every neighbouring state is doom'd to mourn,
Or dread the horrors of a tyrant's chain;
See the lorn Muse to Britain's sainted plain
From scenes of death and uproar gladly flee!
There wake her shatter'd chords to voice again,
And paint, in glowing tints of ecstasy,
The sweets of ease, the pride of conquering Liberty!
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The wreaths of song, by Fancy's fingers twined,
From witching harmony's serener bowers,
May charm the senses and refine the mind,—
But lull and captivate its noblest powers.
And, at this time, when ruin round us lowers,
What place for syren luxury's control?
Oh, for that strain, whose bursting grandeur showers
The fires of ardour on the listening soul,
And sweeps the raptured wish to glory's arduous goal!
From witching harmony's serener bowers,
May charm the senses and refine the mind,—
But lull and captivate its noblest powers.
And, at this time, when ruin round us lowers,
What place for syren luxury's control?
Oh, for that strain, whose bursting grandeur showers
The fires of ardour on the listening soul,
And sweeps the raptured wish to glory's arduous goal!
Ye scenes of Peace, ye gentler themes, adieu!
The last, the weakest of the minstrel throng
Withdraws his fond, regretful thoughts from you,
And proudly bold would dare a nobler song;
Would suit his numbers to the cadence strong
Of sulphurous thunder, and, on feet of flame,
Through groans and slaughter shuddering along,
Would leave his nature-pointed path to fame,
To earn his dearer wish, to earn a Patriot's name!
The last, the weakest of the minstrel throng
Withdraws his fond, regretful thoughts from you,
And proudly bold would dare a nobler song;
Would suit his numbers to the cadence strong
Of sulphurous thunder, and, on feet of flame,
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Would leave his nature-pointed path to fame,
To earn his dearer wish, to earn a Patriot's name!
Thrice happy could his artless descant light
A ray of spirit through his native land,
Redeem one bosom from despondence' night,
Or rouse to rivalry one slumb'ring hand;
Assist the warrior's laurels to withstand,
In song embalm'd, oblivion's dull decay;
The praise of generous purpose but command;
Oh! dare he hope so boldly for his lay,
His dread of censure's fang such hopes would far outweigh.
A ray of spirit through his native land,
Redeem one bosom from despondence' night,
Or rouse to rivalry one slumb'ring hand;
Assist the warrior's laurels to withstand,
In song embalm'd, oblivion's dull decay;
The praise of generous purpose but command;
Oh! dare he hope so boldly for his lay,
His dread of censure's fang such hopes would far outweigh.
Come then, my wild, enthusiastic shell,
Pursue thy task, conform thy trembling string,
For Gratitude claims all thy soul to swell
The laud of them who gave thee ease to sing!
Who dash'd the Vulture Fury fain to spring
On Freedom's fair asylum for its prey!
Come then, my shell, and bid their actions ring
Their panegyric in descriptive lay—
Lo, thy transcendent theme, proud Salamanca's day!
Pursue thy task, conform thy trembling string,
For Gratitude claims all thy soul to swell
The laud of them who gave thee ease to sing!
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On Freedom's fair asylum for its prey!
Come then, my shell, and bid their actions ring
Their panegyric in descriptive lay—
Lo, thy transcendent theme, proud Salamanca's day!
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THE BATTLE OF SALAMANCA.
I.
'Twas Summer's dawn, that silent hourWhen night from lawn and woodland bow'r
Withdrew her sable shroud;
And morning up the eastern sky
Arose, with placid majesty,
In car of silver cloud.
Old Salamanca's few tall spires
Flash'd through the mists like living fires,
And Tormes roll'd his fruitful tide,
A sheet of wavy gold beside.
Thence o'er the landscape scatter'd wild,
The citron's silken tresses smiled
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And here and there the leaves among
The yellow fruitage gaily hung,
In wreath of diamond dew.
II.
Along that fair and fertile greenA brave and hardy host were seen
To rest the weary head;
Spain, Portugal, in long array,
'Mongst Britain's friendly squadrons lay,
All on their grassy bed.
Nor yet the infant beams, that play'd
O'er cheeks with rosy vigour crown'd,
Had melted sleep's refreshing shade,
Which toil had deepen'd round:
But still the dreams of morning stole
From camps and cares the warrior's soul,
Through milder, sweeter scenes to stray,
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And now his footsteps lightly roam
To his neat farm and cottage home;
And now he meets each well-known face,
And, flying to his glad embrace,
His weeping wife, his children dear,
And all his bosom friends, appear!—
Till, as he counts his labours o'er,
And vows to leave them never more!
The shrill reveillé, rattling nigh,
Scares the sweet vision in a sigh!
III.
The sentinel on foremost groundIn silence trod his lonely round,
Save when he raised his voice to tell
His answering comrade “all was well.”
The scenery in its golden trim
No robe of beauty wore for him;
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Were tranced by duty's stern control
The adverse heights along;
Where Gallia's legions to and fro,
That livelong morn were seen to go,
A strange mysterious throng.
Their Chief, to wiles and battles bred,
The busy bands in person led,
Nor skill nor labour spared;
All anxious, from the laurel crown,
Which years of hardly-earn'd renown
Around his brows had reared;—
To-day that wither'd leaf to tear,
Which Britain's Chief had blasted there.
Exulting Marmont! could thine eye
But see the bolt prepared on high,
From that avenging hand to burst
Upon thy nation's plans accurst,
With every hope to shipwreck driven
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Nor to thy lorn entreaty given
E'en the sad refuge of a grave,
Wounded, pursued!—that heart of pride
With other thoughts were now supplied!
IV.
But now the Sun in godlike statePrepares to burst his topaz gate,
And glad th' expecting skies;
And to their various tasks around,
From grassy couch, at trumpet sound,
The brother armies rise.
And now from Britain's mingling bands
A troop with silent haste advance,
To where yon hoary mountain stands
Before the Orient's bright expanse:
Yon hoary mountain wide around
Commands the vassal field—
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To France must never yield!
With heart of pride, and foot of speed,
They dash the dew-drops o'er the mead;
And plant, in thought, their standard now
On vast Arapiles's brow.
V.
Is it the rising King of day,That shoots his beams, in bright array,
Thro' the blue mists, whose wreaths invest,
With airy coif, the mountain's crest?
But lo! a standard now is spied,
And now a burnish'd helm descried—
Till, from the hoary veil,
A phalanx of the flower of France
Along the glittering heights advance,
With waving banner, sword, and gun,
Bright with the newly-risen sun,
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That marches o'er the dale!—
The Britons gaze, surprised, deprest,
And slowly file across the plain,
Upon the neighbouring mountain's breast
To rest their weary train:
Revolving as they onward move,
Should battle wake the trump to-day,
How advantageous through the fray
Still to the Gauls that hill must prove,
That rear'd his giant brow on high,
The arbiter of Victory!
And many a sigh of honest pride
From manly bosom found its way;
And gloomy thought was dash'd aside
With scorn to feel dismay:
For, though a transitory smile,
Now Fortune deigns upon the wile
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Can any bosom own despair
When Britain's sons the combat share,
And Wellington commands?—
VI.
Great Wellington! thy thought inspiresMy soul with more than wonted fires,
And bids me twine with daring aim
A wreath round Conquest's darling name.
Oh, that my weak, presumptuous hand
Could wake the lyre with seraph's art!
Oh, that my wishes could command
A verse as fervent as my heart!
So might I suit my humble lay
To the high hymns that nations pay;
The first to Heaven, the next to Thee,
Victorious Priest of Liberty!
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Thy Sun of Glory rose sublime,
Sweeping their sable hosts away,
Like night before the bursting day:
And now its bright, meridian rays
O'er faint Iberia fall;
Confusion to the eagle gaze
Of devastating Gaul:
On Vimiera's trophied field
Europe's proud victors learnt to yield;
And Talavera's echoes peal'd
The knell of France's dying fame!
O'er Torres Vedras' mountain maze,
Where Heaven and Britain join'd to raise
The ember sparks of Freedom's blaze,
Thy sword was seen to flame;
Like that celestial scymitar,
Whose fiery terrors flash'd afar,
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The afflicters of the human race!
VII.
Oh, mighty Victor, when the MuseWould trace thy bounty-beaming flight,
Her feeble wings the task refuse,
Nor dare to soar so proud a height;
But thus, in admiration's fire,
She warbles with prophetic lyre;—
While Lusian bosom shall inherit
One glimmering of that noble spirit,
Which Britain gave from Freedom's shrine,
Prompter of deeds and thoughts divine;
While'er in lofty, injured Spain
A hate of treachery shall reign,
A hate of each disgrace and woe
That French Oppression bade her know;—
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From Gratitude's warm hand shall smile,
For him who saved her dying cause,
The Hero of the Emerald Isle!
VIII.
Yes, injured Spain, a bitter draughtThy wrath-devoted sons have quaff'd;
And dearly paid their fathers' crimes
In sad Columbia's ravaged climes.
Behold thy plains with slaughter drench'd,
Thy cities flaming high;
The sceptre from thy Monarch wrench'd,
And by a sworn Ally!
He comes, his hand upon his breast,
In token of sincerity—
But ah, he clenches 'neath his vest
The dagger brand of treachery.
Yield, Spaniards, yield your ancient throne,
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This choice is yours, and this alone,
Destruction or disgrace.
And shall a free-born people brook
To reverence a minion's nod;
To tremble at a dastard's look,
And kiss oppression's rod?
Their maids deflower'd, their children slain,
Their shrines despoil'd by hands profane,
Their homes by brutal lords possest,
Afflictions maddening every breast,
A frenzied host—they rise,—they rise,
The fires of vengeance in their eyes,
While Heaven re-echoes to the cry
Of “glorious death or Liberty!”
IX.
But down the Pyrenean steepsLo, a dark host of terror sweeps,
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Like to the desolating tide,
That awful bursts from Etna's side,
O'er field and city thund'ring wide
In cataracts of fire.
With flame and gun and battle brand
They rush upon the fated land;—
Before them happy all and fair,
Behind them ruin and despair.
The frighted mother clasps her child,
And seeks the desert screaming wild:
The swain foresees the storm, and flies,
And, as upon the distant rise
He turns to take one parting view,
And sigh a long and last adieu,—
Sees the loved cottage of his sires,
His fields, his vineyards wrapt in fires,
Grasps his rude arms with angry hand,
And joins his country's patriot band.
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With generous boldness, drive along
To strike one fatal blow;
But headlong rage is ill array'd
'Gainst prudence, strength, and ambuscade;
Repulsed, deluded, and betray'd,
They melt before the foe.
X.
And now the woes of war assumeA wider range, a darker doom,
While havoc palls in funeral gloom
The whole tumultuous scene:
From sea to sea the midnight air
Wafts the wild burthen of despair,
The murderer's threat, the victim's prayer,
And groan and curse between.
'Twould seem as if the infernal band,
Rising at wrathful Heaven's command,
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To raze her image from the world!
And must she sink in all her pride,
Unpitied, unreprieved?
Will all the world forsake her side?
Forsake her, thus aggrieved?
No, wretched land, though all should fly,
Though all should slight thy suppliant cry,
Though all a Tyrant's rage should fear,
There is one spot to mercy dear,
That never spurn'd the plaint of woe,
(No, not from e'en her fiercest foe,)
'Tis Britain bids thee yet be free,
And opes her generous heart to thee!
XI.
See o'er the deep, in solemn pride,The gallant fleet of England glide
Before the whispering wind!
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To catch the image of the brave,
As, o'er the prow reclined,
With wistful ken he seeks afar
The theatre of future war;
And, fired with dreams of trophies proud,
Calls lingering Eurus from his cloud.—
Blow, breezes, blow; a thousand eyes
O'er the green surge are sent to see
The British red cross in the skies,
And hail the friends of Liberty.
Blow, breezes, blow; in Lusia's ear
Resounds the trump of Gallic war—
And who shall stem the foe's career,
While Britain rides the wave afar?
The breeze blows strong; the port they reach;
Glad shouts and clarions to the beach
Their long-wish'd presence greet;
A thousand banners rise in air,
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The foe's approach to meet:
Onward, as lions to their prey,
They rush, and Wellesley leads the way!
XII.
Now might my glowing numbers tell,How Gaul's red spear submissive fell
Before Britannia's might;
When proudly on the wings of fame
Rose Wellington's victorious name
From Vimiera's fight!
How on Corunna's hill of death
The Victor spent his dying breath
In Victory's wild huzza!
And downcast warriors, leaning near,
Breathed low a shuddering groan to hear,
The clod resound upon the bier,
Where Moore untimely lay!
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How Gaul's o'erwhelming armies reel'd,
While trumpets rang, and cannons peal'd,
That Wellesley ruled the day!
How Lusitania's drooping sword
Was taught by dauntless Beresford
To seek the freedom she deplored
Through Albuera's fray!
Nor, Græme, shouldst thou unsung remain,
Who swept Barossa's trembling plain,
And set in Fame's proud galaxy
A star whose lustre ne'er shall die!
XIII.
Then might I praise triumphant Hill,And thousand arms renown'd in fight;
Whose very names my page would fill
With one long blaze of glorious light.
And tell how Britain's lions sprung
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And Gallia's frantic fury flung,
Indignant, from Busaco's rock!
How o'er Rodrigo's midnight lines,
Through ambush'd foes, and bursting mines,
The fearless soldier flew!
How from Badajoz' haughty tower
His hand, in one terrific hour,
The Gallic standard threw!
These and a thousand themes, that well
Might challenge rapture's noblest shell,
Await the daring lyre,
Whose feeble powers would fain relate,
In numbers boldly adequate,
Britannia's deeds of fire;
Till, 'mid a rescued nation's praise,
To Salamanca's field she came,
To crown with victory's brightest bays
A course of mercy and of fame!—
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XIV.
And lo! in many a rainbow hue,The Sun has tinged the morning dew
Along that lovely plain;
Where deep in wide and clotted streams
Of carnage he shall bathe his beams
Before he sets again.
Where many a wounded Frenchman soon
Shall plain his sufferings to the moon
Throughout the livelong night;
And many a Briton's closing eye,
Fix'd in mute anguish on the sky,
Shall ask the boon of those who die
Aiding the wrong'd in fight.
Yes, thousands, thousands soon must lie
Along that fatal plain:
Thousands, for whom affection's sigh
Shall oft be heaved in vain.
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So many opening blossoms blight?
So many parents, widows rave,
And orphans howl their hungry plight,
All by the dark, unholy plan
Of one ambitious, bloody man?
XV.
And shall he feel no Tyrant's fears?Shall no remorse his bosom chill?
He that has drench'd the world with tears,
Shall he be tearless still?
Still shall his hand, with slaughter red,
The fiery sword of havoc wave?
And every region 'neath his tread
Become its people's grave?
No, thunderbolt of angry Heaven,
Thy mission now has ended late—
Thy deathful course is nearly driven
Up to its goal of fate.
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Whose gathering terrors soon shall drown,
In clouds of ruin dark and wide,
The Heaven of thy triumphant pride!
The arm, whose temper'd might represt
Thy proudest champion's wild career;
Tore glory's chaplet from his crest,
And broke his baffled spear;
That arm of valour soon shall roll
Thy second minion's vaunts away—
And brand on every Gallic soul
The deeds of Salamanca's day!
XVI.
On yonder plain the Hero standsAmid his bright and busy bands,
And, fix'd in meditative trance,
Watches the battle-cloud of France
That on the heights, from post to post,
Wavers, a wide, uncertain host—
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The flaming bolt of death shall burst
In thunders o'er the plain.
Now onward press the centre ranks,
Sudden they halt—when, lo! the flanks
Advance—then wheel again.
As, when the Earthquake's terror-peal
Through Nature's bosom rolls profound,
The plains in billowy tumult reel,
The mountains bow their heads around.
The frighted wretches of the land
In silent awe expecting stand,
Till the wild region, opening wide,
Shall gulph them in its fiery tide!
Thus dark and dreadful moves the foe,
While Britain marks him from below—
But nought her lion-heart appals:
Still ready to repel the blow,
When or where'er it falls.
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XVII.
Yet seems not mazed in mysteryTo Wellington their troubled line;
One ray of his sagacious eye
Illumes their whole design.
In vain, with aimless, flickering course,
Still ebbs and flows the tide of fight!
He well foresees its headlong force
Shall pour upon his right.
With cautious skill he straight commands
His choicest chiefs, his bravest bands,
There to condense their barrier line.
“Red arm in battle, valiant Cole,
Be thine the torrent to control,
The post of danger thine.
Through Tormes' waters, Pakenham, speed—
Spur, D'Urban, Lusitania's steed,
And watch, from yonder flanking post,
The movements of their mountain host.
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That oft the arm of prudent skill
Retires to strike a deeper blow.
I know that Nature ne'er represt
The fires that light a Briton's breast
With much of caution's snow—
But why offend your conscious pride
With precepts which you all have tried,
And lodestars found to fame of yore?
Only be Britons, as before;
And Victory's flag shall never wave
But in your hand, or on your grave.”
XVIII.
The clock, that peals with hourly chimeThe death-bell of departed Time,
Rung out from Salamanca's tower
The second from the mid-day hour;
When, on the right, from hostile guns,
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From hill to hill the thunder runs,
And deepens as it rolls.
Down o'er the valley floating wide,
Dark clouds of smoke successive move;
And now they climb the mountain's side,
Where Albion's red cross waves above.
Till, o'er men, arms, and banners bright,
And every object on the right,
The sulphury wave rolls black and thick;
Nought seen within its murky womb,
Save where the cannon flashes quick
Its dark-red light'ning through the gloom.
Above, the ministers of fate,
Amid the vapours winding slow,
Mark, as they sail in dusky state,
Their victims on the plains below.
A sudden west-wind sweeps the glen—
The volumed clouds are gone—
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Advancing briskly on!
Whose line within its iron embrace
Folds half the adverse mountain's base;
While Britain on the crown
Moves on her ranks to meet the foe,
With sword advanced and bayonet low,
Eager to hurl him down.
XIX.
Now through the village fast they flingThat 'neath the British station lies,
When, hark! from front, and rear, and wing
The scatter'd death-shower flies.
They start—they gaze—no foe appears—
Yet still the death-shot frights their ears,
And still they fall around—
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At nightfall, through the woodland waste,
Hears something rustling in the trees,
And, shuddering from the sound,
In every shaking bramble sees
The prowler of the forest ground.
So curb'd the Gaul his proud career,
And look'd and trod with cautious fear,
As if at each advance his feet
A bloody grave were sure to meet.—
Great Wellington from high survey'd
This bold, unequal fray;
He joy'd to see his ambuscade
Fill their proud squadrons with dismay:
Yet, as the tide's repeated shock
At length o'erwhelms th' opposing rock,
And thousands round his warriors grew,
He trembled for his gallant few:
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XX.
And “fly where” Pakenham's heroes wait“Upon the right,” he cried;
“Tell him to grasp the sword of fate,
And crush their rising pride—
Oh! righteous Heaven! to Thee we trust
The cause of this eventful day;
'Tis Thine to shield and aid the just,
And hurl th' oppressor to dismay!
Thine eye hath seen this nation's woes,
Hath seen the treachery of our foes—
Avert the hastening doom of Spain,
And light our arms to joy again!
Leith, Cotton, fly the van to head,
Bradford and Cole, away! away!
At length my anxious prayer is sped,
Glory or death is ours to-day.”
While yet he speaks, upon the right,
Ascends the awful storm of fight;
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At once their listening senses stun:
A hill, whose bulwark rose between,
Conceal'd the battle's murderous scene;
But each succeeding blast
That rose on Britain's anxious ear,
Fraught with the sounds of hope and fear,
Seem'd louder than the last.
Heard ye that shout? 'twas Victory's cry!
Again? the Gauls or Britons fly!
And from behind the height
Now the contending hosts appear,
The troops of France dispersed in flight,
And Pakenham thund'ring in their rear.
Oh! 'tis a dread and dismal sight!
Leaders and armies wing'd by fright,
Weapons with carnage gleaming red,
And horsemen charging o'er the dead,
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To crown the fulness of despair!
XXI.
Now, all around, the armied plainMoved like a tempest-troubled main;
Where, here and there, a plume express'd
Some angry billow's foaming crest.
Rank after rank, along the field
The serried bands of Britain peal'd,
Slow, silent, and serene;
While culverine and mortar flung
Their thunder-shower of death among,
And clouds of funeral darkness hung
Their horrors round the scene.
High on the cliffs that topp'd the storm,
In haste, the foe was seen to form
His long and dark array:
As the wild dogs of Zara ken
164
And round their mangled prey
Gather a loud and troubled throng,
And with unreal fury long,
To scare their foe away:
Thus, crowding round their vantage post,
With shouts and threats the Gallic host
Assail'd the troops below;
While now up every cloud-wrapt height
Roll'd the grim tempest of their might,
Upon the astonish'd foe!
XXII.
Nearer and nearer still they bearTheir steely terror through the gloom;
While France redoubles her despair,
To ward her coming doom.
Musket and cannon madly sweep
From every hill's high crest;
But Britain still ascends the steep,
165
Each chief before his rampant band
Strides with reverted eye,
While valour's falchion in his hand,
Points their stern looks on high,
Where to the verges of the rock
The Gauls in hurried wonder speed,
There hand to hand to meet the shock,
And gaze with panic on a deed
Which little souls might well believe
Too much for mortals to achieve.
For o'er each height's redoubted head,
Firm as the rock on which they tread,
Dark as the vision of the dead,
The British host is seen to wheel:
“Charge!” through the phalanx loudly rings,
Onward each foot with lightning springs,
Down every hand in thunder flings
The fateful gleaming of its steel.
166
XXIII.
They meet—they struggle—wide aroundBursts the dread conflict's hideous crash;
Bayonets on bayonets dash'd resound,
Sabres on sabres clash:
A mingled tumult roars on high ,
The drum, the trumpet's burning breath,
The shouting victors' furious joy,
The wounded's anguish'd shriek of death.
Has any fallen? in his stead
Another soon, with wilder rage,
Springs o'er the dying and the dead,
For death or vengeance to engage.
Huge is the carnage, wild the strife,
And life is bravely paid with life,
167
The vantage wrestling long in doubt,—
At length the British arm prevails!
Another charge drives on amain—
The Gauls behold—their firmness fails—
They fly confounded o'er the plain.
Onward the British battle flows,
Gloomy and dreadful as before,
O'er columns of their slaughter'd foes,
And arms and ensigns wash'd with gore.
Each bloody grasp with bayonet steel'd,
The fire of death in every eye,
They thunder o'er the trembling field,
The guardian saints of Liberty!
XXIV.
High on the left a mountain roseIn rugged grandeur o'er the fray;
168
That morn had made her prey:
Vast, inaccessible, it frown'd,
The sovereign of the plains around—
Gaul's shatter'd squadrons welcomed there,
Retreat, and respite from despair.
But scarce had gasp'd a moment's breath,
When up the crags the storm of death
Behind them madly flung:
Gaul mark'd their headlong violence,
And from her adamantine fence
Upon her victims sprung.
Oh! Heaven! protect our breathless group!
What countless thousands on them troop,
All hung'ring for their doom!
Fly, Britain, fly the hopeless fight!
While yet remains the choice of flight,
Fly from thy closing tomb!
Numbers and nature, both thy foes,
169
Thy chief himself the mandate gave,
Fly what thou durst not hope to brave!
XXV.
The British onset thus in vainWith brightening hopes the Gauls survey,
And turn; and form upon the plain,
Fierce to retrieve the desperate day.
Is it the wild tornado's breath?
Is it the thunder-crash of death?
Or is it Britain's hosting train,
Whose rampant chargers shake the plain?
'Tis they—'tis Cotton's hearts of flame,
That rush to tear a wreath of fame
From hostile brows in fight!
Full on the destined foe they fall—
Where now the pride, the hopes of Gaul?
Low on the field, blood trampled all,
170
Yet why that shriek of lorn dismay?
No Briton ever shriek'd through fear!
Why does that anxious group delay,
Behind the chase, lamenting here?
Alas! around a fallen chief,
In all the gloom of manly grief,
They stand, and weep in vain!
Valour's first arm is there controll'd,
The warmest heart of honour cold,
In brave Le Marchant slain!—
Let joyous music fill the air!
Let pleasure light the festal dome!
Nine children and a wife prepare
Their long-lost hero's welcome home!
But ah! that cry! and is he fled?
Their hope, their prayer, their only stay?
Calm is his rest on glory's bed—
But what shall comfort their dismay?
171
XXVI.
But hark! the din of fightAgain assails the wearied ear;
And 'neath the fatal height,
In horrid fray the hosts appear.
The foe firm-placed and numerous stand;
But place and numbers little daunt,
Where gleams the steel in British hand,
And Cole is in the front.
Breathless, impetuous, on they haste,
Where 'gainst their rashness France has placed
Her ordeal ridge of steely fire.
But vain their frenzy! still where'er
They charge, a thousand points appear,
To hush in death their mad career,
And dash their baffled ire.
And from the hill's impending banks
Thunder on thunder thins their ranks;
172
All fill alike a bloody grave.
And must they yield? forbid it, pride!
Another charge shall first be tried.
Another charge! but scarce the sound
Woke fire and confidence around
Through every sinking soul,
When from the mountain's crowded head
A darker shower of death is sped,
And streams of blood are seen to spread
The breast of gallant Cole!
XXVII.
They see him fall—they check their speed—Nor flight nor onset longer heed!
But, gloomy and condensed, prepare
To meet their fate with stern despair.
When on the right is heard a shout,
“Spry, bring thy squadron's fire about,
173
The harass'd remnants of the brave.”
Bless'd as the rays of dawn appear
To some night-founder'd mariner,
Rose through the rout on Britain's ear
Thy voice, oh Beresford!
But joy's pale torch soon pass'd away—
Instead of ardour's glad huzza,
An answering cry of wild dismay
From every tongue was heard.
They turn'd, and dark before them stood
The hero deluged in his blood!
And see that band that o'er the heath
Bear their sad burthen, mute and slow!
And is it thou, victorious Leith,
In all thy glory, thus laid low?
Brave patriot! though thy soul was riven
By torture's poison fang,
Still to thy country's cause was given
174
For now throughout the British train,
Their leader lost, their efforts vain,
A dreadful panic seem'd to reign,
And paralyze their force;
While hope in every Gallic soul,
Shook from her faded fires away
The gathering ashes of dismay,
And on sad Britain bade them roll
Their desolating course!
XXVIII.
And, doubtless, now the trodden heathHad quaff'd a deeper tide of death,
While France on Britain's shrinkless blade
The meed of rage in turn had paid:
Or, haply, o'er the purple plain,
Up the steep hill of Victory,
Had paved her way with Britons slain—
175
But Wellington, who on a hill,
Ruling the wide and woeful sight,
(As one sent down by Heaven's command,
With Fate's dark fiat in his hand,)
Sublimely stood, and pour'd his will
Through the long ridges of the fight,
With heart—not flutter'd nor dismay'd,
But roused to energy, survey'd
The storm of battle turn'd;
For as a fire, whose rising light
Grows brighter through the gloom of night,
The Hero's spirit burn'd:
And danger's mirror only brought
The scatter'd brilliancies of thought
In one broad blaze to light his soul
The way to Glory's proudest goal!
For scarce along the battling maze
He cast one transient eagle gaze,
176
The means to succour and repel,
And “Clinton, to the rescue ,” fell
Portentous from his tongue.
XXIX.
As when a cloud of deathful gloom,The seaman's terror, o'er the steep
Pours its fierce whirlwinds on the deep,
Some fated vessel to entomb
Within wild ocean's womb;
So the dread voice of Wellington,
Borne through the battle's tide,
Woke their waned strength, and roll'd them on,
To wreck the foeman's pride.
Lo! through the field, a radiant band,
177
The levell'd steel, in every eye
The stern resolve to win or die!
Behind their ranks the sufferers bless
A grateful refuge from distress;
The rest with new-born ardour press,
By brave example, on the foe,—
The foe that now with alter'd eye
See the grim ruin driving nigh,
And from the plain and mountain fly
In panic from the blow.
High on their flight the British train,
Shouting and slaughtering, rush amain—
While the broad sun, that now has driven
His chariot to the verge of Heaven,
Shooting his horizontal beams
Through smoke, and arms, and ensigns, seems
In each reverted eye to flare
An angry look of red despair.
178
XXX.
Oh! for that voice, whose dread commandOrdain'd the fiery King to stand
O'er Gibeon's holy hill;
Till Heaven's bright sword had amply sped
Its terrors on the impious head,
And vengeance had her fill!
For as he wanders to repose
Behind yon western mountain's head,
And even's crimson curtains close
Around his golden bed;
High on the left, to dare their doom,
Like spirits from the nightly tomb,
The Gauls their lines repair;
And all the scatter'd clouds of fight,
That, erst were drifted from the right,
Collect their terrors there.
But soon that cloud again shall reel,
Before the storm of Britain's steel—
179
And eager to the station peal,
Where danger and where glory burn.
A moment for their flurried breath—
A moment for their loose array—
And all, with Clinton, on the heath,
Are ready for the fray.
They shout—they charge—oh! who can stand
The lightning brunt of Britain's hand?
Ere scarce a blade could drink
Of Gallic blood, in every part,
With hasty foot, and wilder'd heart,
Into the night they shrink.
XXXI.
Rest, conquering Britons! every swordEnough with slaughter has been gored.
Rest, warriors, rest! each weary foot
Enough has toil'd in proud pursuit.
180
Placed by their Chief apart the fray,
Have fought in wish alone,
Now joyous, eager, fly to wrest
One bloody wreath from Gallia's crest,
Ere yet her steps be flown.
And lo! the mighty at their head!
Great Wellington! who comes to tread
Their utmost hopes to ground;—
Like to that pyre of heavenly light,
Which walk'd of old in Israel's sight,
To guide her hallow'd steps aright,
When glooms and foes hung round.
And now they reach the flying train—
And now the battle roars again,
In all its former din—
While night, around their dizzy heads,
Her darkest, dreariest mantle spreads,
Heightening the terrors of the scene.
181
XXXII.
Distracted Gaul! how drear to theeAppear'd that night of destiny,
When on thy army's broken flight
Career'd Britannia's whirlwind might!
How oft thy soldier raised in prayer
His eye, and shivering hand, to Heaven,
When fright and faintness fetter'd there
His feet by danger onward driven!
When 'mid the rout he cannot know
If his next man be friend or foe;
Until perchance a sudden spear,
Deep in his bosom, sternly tells
The hand of the invader near;
Or fiery victor in his ear
His frightful triumph yells;
Or when the steely spark, that flashes
From swords whose midway fury clashes,
182
A grim, blue host of angry foes,
Rushing with more than mortal might,
His last weak hopes of life to blight;
XXXIII.
Thus Gallia's routed legions bled;And scarce one frighted soul had fled
From that avenging night,
But darkness lent her friendly shroud,
And screen'd the remnants of the crowd
Whose limbs had strength for flight.
Through tangled forests dark and wide,
Through rocks and rushing waves they hied,
Nor ceased till Tormes roll'd his tide
Between them and their foes;
Who now, along the opposing banks,
Collect their slaughter-wearied ranks
To snatch a short repose,
183
To humbled Gallia's trembling train.
XXXIV.
And now has beat the last dull drum,And the last bugle blown;
The watchful sentry, dark and dumb,
Parades his round alone:
No sounds invade his listening ear,
But Tormes' billow murmuring nigh,
Or when at times the night-winds bear
From the far plain a hollow sigh.
Along that carnage-cover'd green
How sad, how awful is the scene!
How opposite to that which gleam'd
On morning's eye, when trumpets scream'd,
And ardent warriors, shouting high,
Rush'd wildly on for victory!
184
No warriors shine in proud array;
But broken arms are scatter'd round,
And corses strew the bloody clay:
No voice disturbs the ear of night,
Save where the wounded groans his plight,
From 'neath a heap of slain:
And here and there a pitying throng,
That bears some dying man along,
Is all that walks the plain.
XXXV.
Thou, hapless Lady, thou wert there,In all thy wildness of despair,
Who, at the voice of rumour, fled
Upon the wings of swift delight,
To hail thy victor from the fight—
But met his corse instead!
185
Can speak her exquisite distress,
When o'er her slaughter'd Lord she hung,
And call'd on Death her heart to bless?
And oh! how many a soul must bleed
Of lover, parent, child, and wife,
In death's dark page, through tears, to read
The names of those adored in life;
For ever lost! for ever fled!
And none to bear their last request!
No hand to smoothe their dying bed!
No tear to dew their turf of rest!
Ye mournful band! your wounds are deep,
And who shall chide your plaintful sigh?
But still remember, while you weep,
They died, as heroes love to die!
186
High ardour chased each pang away:
Their deeds shall fire the soldier's breast,
And nerve his hand in danger's day.
Their grateful country shall enrol
Their names on Glory's lists divine,
And God Himself shall bless the soul,
A sacrifice from Freedom's shrine!
No widow, orphan o'er their head,
Shall wail their wrongs, or cry for bread:
Their wives become their country's care,
Their children find a father there.
Oh! generous Britain! round thy brow
Thy acts of mercy seem to throw
A heavenly crown, of purer flame,
Than e'en thy deeds of warlike fame!
187
XXXVI.
Amid the dew, beneath the sky,On either side the stream,
The warriors close the bloodshot eye,
And stretch the wearied limb.
But far diverse the thoughts that roll
O'er either army's anxious soul!
Far different feelings bid them view
The Orient welkin's brightening hue!
The Gaul, by fear forbade to sleep,
Condemn'd all night to pray and weep,
Watches with trembling eye the light,
The harbinger of harass'd flight,
Sighs, for his trophies, now no more,
And thinks what ills are yet in store,
How many perils, and fatigues,
And hungry hours, and rugged leagues,
Ere his sad heart may hope to find
All that is loved and left behind.
188
'Twas exultation bade him fly;
If that he watch'd the coming day,
'Twas but to chide its long delay;
If homeward stray'd his joyous thought,
It stray'd some evening hour to hail,
When, round the faggot, in his cot,
The swains should wonder at his tale,
His tale with vaunts and conquests rife,
On march, in quarters, and in strife.
XXXVII.
If such the thoughts that then possestBritannia's meanest son,
What feelings must have fired thy breast,
Triumphant Wellington?
While the world's anxious eye was cast,
With many a trembling wish on Thee,
To see thy proudest hopes surpass'd,
189
To see a Chief and veteran band,
(Who boasted in their pride
From Victory's very side
To have received with eager hand
Her keenest, strongest brand of doom)
With all the laurel trophies crown'd
Their hands had glean'd from nations round,—
A mighty sacrifice to come;
And yield reluctant all their bays,
To heap the altar of thy praise!
High gifted man! whoe'er survey
The actions of that glorious day,
See hosts so oft in danger tried,
With place and number on their side,
Spite of each vantage, yielding still
To Britain's fire and Wellesley's skill,
Or friend or foeman must declare,
The hand of Fortune sway'd not there!
190
To thee a glorious task hath given;
Hath steel'd thy arm, illumed thy mind,
And bade thee succour lost mankind;
With thee the signal spear hath hurl'd,
To crush the Tyrant of the world.
Hark! how the nations round proclaim
The praises of thy deathless name,
And hymn thy battles won!
And Britain, bounding 'midst her tide,
Takes up the strain, and spreads it wide,
To tell the listening world, with pride,
The greatness of her Wellington!
------ πολυς δ' ορυμαγδος ορωρει.
Ενθα δ' αμ' οιμωγη τε και ευχωλη πελεν ανδρων
Ολλυντων τε και ολλυμενων.
Ενθα δ' αμ' οιμωγη τε και ευχωλη πελεν ανδρων
Ολλυντων τε και ολλυμενων.
Homer.
191
CONCLUSION.
The song is hush'd—the vision'd pomps of fight
Sink from my eye, and die upon my ear!
Lost is the shout of wrath, the cry of fright;
Arms, flags, and battling hosts no more appear.
But loud upon the gale I seem to hear
The voice of triumph from another shore!
On Britain's isle ascends the gladsome cheer.
Awake, my shell, thy failing chords once more,
Join in the festal hymn, and all thy task is o'er.
Sink from my eye, and die upon my ear!
Lost is the shout of wrath, the cry of fright;
Arms, flags, and battling hosts no more appear.
But loud upon the gale I seem to hear
The voice of triumph from another shore!
On Britain's isle ascends the gladsome cheer.
Awake, my shell, thy failing chords once more,
Join in the festal hymn, and all thy task is o'er.
First, unto Thee, benignant Heaven, we pay
The sacred anthems of our grateful pride!
Whose mighty hand on this auspicious day
Hath borne the sword of vengeance on our side:
How shall our words express the votive tide
Read in our swelling breasts our thoughts of flame!
Oh be thy dread assistance still supplied
To Britain's arm, to Britain's generous aim,
And whet her hallow'd spear the men of blood to tame.
The sacred anthems of our grateful pride!
Whose mighty hand on this auspicious day
Hath borne the sword of vengeance on our side:
192
Read in our swelling breasts our thoughts of flame!
Oh be thy dread assistance still supplied
To Britain's arm, to Britain's generous aim,
And whet her hallow'd spear the men of blood to tame.
And next, O Wellington, to thee is due
The plausive tribute, and the laurel crown!
And them with thee, whose kindred spirits flew
For Britain's safety to despise their own!
Hail to the gallant sons of pure renown!
Hail to the guardians of their native strand!
Oh! gracious Heaven, around their head hang down
Thy sacred mantle—speed their generous hand
To blast oppression's plans, and save an injured land!
The plausive tribute, and the laurel crown!
And them with thee, whose kindred spirits flew
For Britain's safety to despise their own!
Hail to the gallant sons of pure renown!
Hail to the guardians of their native strand!
Oh! gracious Heaven, around their head hang down
Thy sacred mantle—speed their generous hand
To blast oppression's plans, and save an injured land!
193
Flush'd with success, we saw the lawless crowd,
(Whose every threat the nations wont to weep,
As deed already done)—they rush'd—they vow'd
To whelm our slighted legions in the deep.
Oh feeble boast! from Torres Vedras' steep
Behold the furious bloodhounds kept at bay!
Behold them fly from thence, a troubled heap,
Distress and danger lowering round their way,
Till their last hopes are quench'd in Salamanca's fray!
(Whose every threat the nations wont to weep,
As deed already done)—they rush'd—they vow'd
To whelm our slighted legions in the deep.
Oh feeble boast! from Torres Vedras' steep
Behold the furious bloodhounds kept at bay!
Behold them fly from thence, a troubled heap,
Distress and danger lowering round their way,
Till their last hopes are quench'd in Salamanca's fray!
Rise, Spaniards, rise, and grasp the battle brand,
Avenge your wrongs,—redeem your trampled laws;
Rise, and repel the harpies of your land!
For now the foe his iron rod withdraws;
And to sustain his brethren's baffled cause,
Calls off his hordes, and leaves you time to dare,—
Curse on the wretch who slights this happy pause,
To rush in arms to Freedom's shrine, and swear
His dying land to save, or her sad fate to share!
Avenge your wrongs,—redeem your trampled laws;
Rise, and repel the harpies of your land!
For now the foe his iron rod withdraws;
And to sustain his brethren's baffled cause,
Calls off his hordes, and leaves you time to dare,—
194
To rush in arms to Freedom's shrine, and swear
His dying land to save, or her sad fate to share!
They wake—they rise—they cast their bonds away,
Burst the vain fetters of their erring pride;
'Neath Britain's standard join in firm array,
And call on Wellington their rage to guide!
Lo to thy doom, proud Tyrant, far and wide
The precepts of the British Fabius fly!
Hear'st thou the shouts that on the north wind ride?
Hear'st thou, dark man, thy hapless people's cry,
To sink 'mid Russian snows, and curse thee as they die?
Burst the vain fetters of their erring pride;
'Neath Britain's standard join in firm array,
And call on Wellington their rage to guide!
Lo to thy doom, proud Tyrant, far and wide
The precepts of the British Fabius fly!
Hear'st thou the shouts that on the north wind ride?
Hear'st thou, dark man, thy hapless people's cry,
To sink 'mid Russian snows, and curse thee as they die?
195
Behold the murderers of the world's repose
Advance in mad ambition's full career;
The summer sun upon the pageant glows,
And visionary spoils their labours cheer,—
But famine and disaster hover near,
And midst the waste spring down upon their prey.
Ruin and dearth instead of spoils appear—
Repulsed, distress'd, beset upon their way,
Thousands on thousands fall in horrible dismay.
Advance in mad ambition's full career;
The summer sun upon the pageant glows,
And visionary spoils their labours cheer,—
But famine and disaster hover near,
And midst the waste spring down upon their prey.
Ruin and dearth instead of spoils appear—
Repulsed, distress'd, beset upon their way,
Thousands on thousands fall in horrible dismay.
When, righteous Heaven, will all these horrors cease?
When will the measure of thy wrath be spann'd?
When will thy angel ministers of peace
Descend on earth, and wave their hallow'd wand?
Then shall the smiling muse with raptured hand,
Tear from her patriot lyre the sanguine string,
And cowering to her long-loved Fairy land,
Strive on the golden links of peace to fling
A wreath of votive flowers, fresh cull'd from Fancy's spring.
When will the measure of thy wrath be spann'd?
When will thy angel ministers of peace
Descend on earth, and wave their hallow'd wand?
Then shall the smiling muse with raptured hand,
196
And cowering to her long-loved Fairy land,
Strive on the golden links of peace to fling
A wreath of votive flowers, fresh cull'd from Fancy's spring.
Dublin, 1812.
| Remains (1850) | |