Talavera :: :: University of Virginia Library

Talavera

Ninth Edition. To Which are Added, Other Poems [by J. W. Croker]

Croker, John Wilson (1780-1857)

[epigraph]

II.

III.

IV.

TO HIM WHO DESPAIRS OF SPAIN.

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TALAVERA.

Dicam insigne, recens, adhuc
Indictum ore alio.

I.

'Twas dark; from every mountain head
The sunny smile of heaven had fled,
And evening, over hill and dale
Dropt, with the dew, her shadowy veil;
In fabled Teio's darkening tide
Was quenched the golden ray;

Silent, the silent stream beside,
Three gallant people's hope and pride,
Three gallant armies lay.
France, every nation's foe, is there,
And Albion's sons her red cross bear,
With Spain's young Liberty to share
The patriot array,
That, spurning at th' oppressor's chain,
Springs arm'd, from every hill and plain,
From ocean to the eastern main—
From Seville to Biscaye.
All, from the dawn till even tide,
The fortune of the field had tried
In loose but bloody fray;
And now with thoughts of dubious fate

Feverish and weary, they await
A fiercer, bloodier day.

II.

Fraternal France's chosen bands
He of the borrow'd crown commands,
And on Alberche's hither sands
Pitches his tents to-night:
While, Talavera's wall between
And olive groves and gardens green,
Spain quarters on the right;
All scatter'd in the open air
In deep repose; save here and there,
Pondering to-morrow's fight,

A spearman, in his midnight prayer,
Invokes our Blessed Lady's care
And good Saint James's might.
Thence to the left, across the plain
And on the neighbouring height,
The British bands, a watchful train,
Their wide and warded line maintain,
Fronting the east, as if to gain
The earliest glimpse of light.

III.

While thus, with toil and watching worn,
The Island warriors wait the morn,
And think the hours too slow;

Hark!—on the midnight breezes borne
Sounds from the vale below!
What sounds? No gleam of arms they see,
Yet still they hear—What may it be?
It is, it is the foe!
From every hand and heart and head,
So quick was never lightning sped,
Weakness and weariness are fled;—
And down the mountain steeps,
Along the vale, and through the shade,
With ball and bayonet and blade,
They seek the foe who dares invade
The watch that England keeps.
Nor do the dauntless sons of France
Idly await the hot advance:—

As active and as brave
Thrice rush they on, and thrice their shock
Rebounding breaks, as from the rock
Is dash'd the wintry wave.

IV.

But soon the darkling armies blend,
Promiscuous death around they send,
Foe falls by foe and friend by friend
In mingled heaps o'erthrown:
And many a gallant feat is done,
And many a laurel lost and won,
Unwitness'd and unknown;—
Feats, that achieved in face of day,
Had fired the bard's enthusiast lay,

And in some holy aisle for aye
Had lived in sculptured stone.
Oh, for a blaze from heaven, to light
The wonders of that gloomy fight,
The guerdon to bestow,
Of which the sullen envious night
Bereaves the warrior's brow!
Furious they strike without a mark,
Save where the sudden sulphurous spark
Illumes some visage grim and dark,
That with the flash is gone!
And, 'midst the conflict, only know,
If chance has sped the fatal blow,
Or by the trodden corse below,
Or by the dying groan.

V.

Far o'er the plain, and to the shores
Of Teio and Alberche, roars
The tumult of the fight;
The distant camps, alarmed, arise;
And throbbing hearts, and straining eyes
Watch, through the dull and vapoury skies,
The portents of the night—
The vollying peals, terrific cries,
And gleams of lurid light—
But all is indistinct:—in vain
The anxious crowds their senses strain,
And, in the flash or shout,
Fancy they catch the signal plain
Of victory or rout:—

The signal dies away again,
And the still, breathless crowds remain
In darkness and in doubt.

VI.

Thus roll'd the short yet lingering night
Its clouds o'er hill and dale;
But when the morning show'd in light
The wreck of that tempestuous fight
Scatter'd along the vale;
Still seated on her trophied height,
Britain exulted at the sight,
And France's cheek grew pale.
Lords of the field, the victors view

Ten gallant French the turf bestrew
For every Briton slain:
They view, with not unmingled pride;
Some anxious thoughts their souls divide—
Their throbbing hopes restrain;
Hundreds beneath their arm have died,
But myriads still remain:
A sterner strife must yet be tried,
A more tempestuous day decide
The wavering fates of Spain.
From the hill summit they behold,
By the first beams of orient gold
In adverse arms reveal'd,
Full fifty thousand warriors bold,

Inured to war, in conquest old,
To toil and terror steel'd:
But they,—as steel'd to fear or toil,
As bold, as proud of war-won spoil,
In victory's path as skill'd,
Though doomed with twice their strength to try
The hard unequal field,
They view the foe with kindling eye,
And, in their generous transport, cry
“Conquer we may—perhaps must die;
“But never, never yield!”

VII.

Thus ardent they: but who can tell,
In Wellesley's heart what passions swell?

What cares must agitate his mind,
What wishes, doubts, and hopes combined,
Whom with his country's chosen bands,
'Midst cold allies, in foreign lands,
Outnumbering foes surround;
From whom that country's jealous call
Demands the blood, the fame of all;
To whom 'twere not enough to fall,
Unless with victory crown'd?
O heart of honour! soul of fire!
Even at that moment fierce and dire,
Thy agony of fame,
When Britain's fortune dubious hung,
And France tremendous swept along
In tides of blood and flame;

Even while thy genius and thy arm
Retrieved the day, and turn'd the storm
To France's rout and shame,
Even at that moment, factious spite
And envious fraud, conspired to blight
The honours of thy name!

VIII.

He thinks not of them:—From that height
He views the scene of future fight,
And, silent and serene, surveys,
Down to the plain where Teio strays,
The woods, the streams, the mountain ways,
Each dell and sylvan hold:
Prescient of all the war, he knows

On wing or center, where the foes
May pour their fury most;
And marks what portion of the field
To their advance 'twere good to yield,
And what must not be lost.
And all his gallant chiefs around
Observant watch, where o'er the ground
His eagle glance has rolled.
Few words he spake, or needed they,
Of counsel for the approaching fray,
Where to condense the loose array,
Or where the line unfold:
They saw, they felt what he would say,
And the best order of the day,
It was his eye that told.

IX.

And is it now a goodly sight,
Or dreadful to behold,
The pomp of that approaching fight—
Waving ensigns, pennons light,
And gleaming blades and bayonets bright,
And eagles wing'd with gold;—
And warrior bands of many a hue,
Scarlet and white and green and blue,
Like rainbows, o'er the morning dew
Their varied tints unfold:
While swells the martial din around,—
And, starting at the bugle's sound,
The tramping squadrons beat the ground,
And drums unceasing roll:

Frequent and long the warrior cheer,
To glory's perilous career
Awakes and fires the soul:
And oft, by fits confused and clear,
The din and clang, to fancy's ear,
The knell of thousands toll.

X.

Soon, soon shall vanish that array,
Those varied colours fade away
Like meteors light and vain,
And eagle bright and pennon gay,
Ensanguined dust distain:
And soon be hush'd in various death,
The cymbal's clang, the clarion's breath,

The thunder of the plain:—
That sun which fires the eastern sky
E'er noon shall set to many an eye
In battle's stormy main.
The young, the gay, the proud, the strong,
Ghastly and gored, shall lie along
In mingled carnage piled.
Blood shall pollute the limpid source,
And Teio flow with many a corse,
Affrighted and defiled.

XI.

But not alone by Teio's shore,
Tho' heap'd with slain, and red with gore,

The tide of grief shall flow:—
'Tis not amidst the din of fight,
Nor on the warrior's crested height,
Death strikes his direst blow:—
Far from the fray, unseen and late,
Descend the bitterest shafts of fate,
Where tender love, and pious care
The lingering hours of absence wear
In solitude and gloom;
And, mingling many a prayer and tear,
Of sire, or child, or husband dear
Anticipate the doom:
Their hopes no trophied prospects cheer,
For them no laurels bloom;

But trembling hope, and feverish fear,
Forebodings wild, and visions drear
Their anguish'd hearts consume.

XII.

All tremble now, but not on all,
Poison'd with equal woe, shall fall
The shaft of destiny:—to some
The dreadful tale of ill shall come,
Not unallayed with good;
And they, with mingled grief and pride,
Shall hear that in the battle's tide
Their darling soldier sank and died;—
Died as a soldier should!

But in the rough and stormy fray,
Many are doomed to death to-day,
Whose fate shall ne'er at home be told,
Whose very names the grave shall fold;
Many, for whose return, in vain
The wistful eye of love shall strain,
In cruel hope that ne'er can die,—
In vain parental fondness sigh,
And filial sorrow mourn—
On Talavera's plain they lie,
No! never to return!

XIII.

But, tyrant, thou, the cause of all
The blood that streams, the tears that fall,

Who, by no faith or fear confin'd,
In impious triumph o'er mankind,
Thy desolating course hast driven,
Bursting the sacred ties that bind
Man to his fellow and to heaven!
All great and guilty as thou art,
Thou of the iron hand and heart,
Shalt suffer yet the vengeance due
To him, who swears but to betray,
Whose friendship aids but to undo,
And only smiles to slay!
In thy last hour of parting pain,
The parents', widows', orphans' moan,
The shrieking of the battle plain,
The strangled prisoners' midnight groan,

Shall harrow up thy brain;
From countless graves, the ghastly crew
Shall burst upon thy frensied view—
Thou peopler of the tomb!
And, stern and silent 'midst their cries,
The murder'd heir of Bourbon rise,
And through the shadowy gloom,
Shake the curst torches in thine eyes
That lighted to his doom!

XIV.

But not to that tremendous hour
Does Heaven remit its torturing power;
And ev'n thy tyrant heart shall feel,
That here—that now—there's vengeance still!

In vain, thy gorgeous state would hide
Of conscious fear and wounded pride,
The self-inflicted pang;—
Though monarchs to thy car be tied,
Though over half the world beside,
Thy chains of conquest clang,—
Britain and Spain, erect and proud,
Defy thee to the strife aloud,
And wave to Europe's servile crowd,
The flag of liberty:
In it, thou seest thy glory's shroud;
It's shadow, like a thunder cloud,
O'erhangs thy destiny.

XV.

Yes, thou shalt learn—and, at the tale,
Thy pride shall shrink, thy hope shall fail,
Though falsehood's hand have trac'd
The lying legend—thou shall know
Thy marshals foiled—thy thousands low—
Thy puppet King disgrac'd!
Far other thoughts their bosoms fill;
As now to Talavera's hill
Proud in their numbers and their skill,
The Gallic columns haste:
The same they are, and led by those,
The scourges of the world's repose,
Victors of Milan's fair domain,

Of Austerlitz's wintry plain,
And Friedland's sandy waste:
Who Prussia's shiver'd sceptre hurl'd
Down to the dust, and from the world
Her very name erased:
Who boast them, in presumptuous tone,
Each feat and fortune to have known
Of war, except defeat alone;
But now of that to taste!

XVI.

Valiant tho' vain, tho' boastful wise,
Marshals, and Dukes! with skilful eyes
They view the adverse line;

And well their prudent councils weigh
The eventful danger of the day,
Where Britain's banners shine.
‘What though the Spanish spear we foil,
‘Poor were the prize, and vain the toil:—
‘Nothing is done till Britain's spoil
‘Attest our victory:
‘Till, on the wings of terror borne,
‘The Leopards, scattered and forlorn,
‘Fly to their guardian sea.
‘On then! let Britain prove our might!
‘Her's be the trial of the fight,
‘The peril and the pain!

‘Press her with growing thousands round,
‘Dash that red banner to the ground,
‘And seal the fate of Spain!’

XVII.

Thus France, her baseless vision forms:
But He,—long tried in battle storms,
In Ind's unequal war
Scattering, like dust, the sable swarms
Of Scindiah and Berar;
He, conqueror still where'er he turns,
On Zealand's frozen reign,
Or where the sultry summer burns
Vimero's rocky plain;

Who, from his tyrant station shook,
With grasp of steel, Abrantes' Duke;
He, who from Douro's rescued side,
Dispersed Dalmatia's upstart pride;—
In fortune and desert the same
On every scene of war,
Sebastiani's pride shall tame;
And practised Jourdan's veteran fame,
And Victor! thy portentous name
Shall fade before his star!

XVIII.

In front of Talavera's wall,
And near the confluent streams, the Gaul
His royal banner rears to sight,

With all the borrow'd blazon bright
Of Leon and Castille;
And seems to meditate a fight
That Spain alone shall feel.
Oh, vain pretence! to Wellesley's eyes,
As pervious as the air!
He knows, that while the red cross flies,
From the strong covert, where she lies
Entrench'd and shelter'd, Spain defies
The utmost France can dare—
That Britain, on her blood-stain'd hill,
The brunt of fight must bear—
And France, though baffled thrice, will still
Strain all her force, exhaust her skill,
To plant her eagles there;

Which soon, from that commanding height
Would speed their desolating flight,
And, sweeping o'er the scatter'd plain,
The hopes of England and of Spain
With iron talon tear.

XIX.

Now from the dark artillery broke
Lightning flash and thunder stroke;
And cloud on cloud of fiery smoke
Rolls in the darken'd air:
Wrapp'd in its shade, unheard, unseen,
Artful surprise and onset keen
The crafty foes prepare—

Three columns of the flower of France
With rapid step and firm, advance
At first thro' tangled ground,
O'er fence and dell and deep ravine;
At length they reach the level green,
The midnight battle's murderous scene,
The valley's eastern bound.
There in a rapid line they form,
Thence are just rushing to the storm
By bold Belluno led,
When sudden thunders shake the vale,
Day seems, as in eclipse, to fail,
The light of heaven is fled;
A dusty whirlwind rides the sky,

A living tempest rushes by
With deafening clang and tread—
‘A charge! a charge!’ the British cry,
‘And Seymour at its head.’

XX.

Belluno sees the coming storm,
And feels the instant need.
‘Break up the line, the column form,
‘And break and form with speed,
‘Or under Britain's thundering arm
‘In rout and ruin bleed!’
Quick, as upon the sea-beat sands
Vanish the works of childish hands,

The lengthen'd lines are gone,
And broken into nimble bands
Across the plain they run:
‘Spur, Britain, spur thy foaming horse,
‘O'ertake them in their scatter'd course,
‘And sweep them from the land!’
She spurs, she flies; in vain, in vain—
Already they have pass'd the plain,
And now the broken ground they gain,
And now, a column, stand!
‘Rein up thy courser, Britain, rein!’—
But who the tempest can restrain?
The mountain flood command?
Down the ravine, with hideous crash,
Headlong the foremost squadrons dash,

And many a soldier, many a steed
Crush'd in the dire confusion bleed.
The rest, as ruin fills the trench,
Pass clear, and on the column'd French,
A broken and tumultuous throng,
With glorious rashness pour along,
Too prodigal of life;
And they had died, aye every one,
But Wellesley cries, ‘On, Anson, on,
‘Langworth, and Albuquerque and Payne,
‘Lead Britain, Hanover, and Spain,
‘And turn the unequal strife.’

XXI.

Needs it to tell how fierce the flame
Burn'd of that doubtful strife,
Whose precious prize was life, and fame
More precious still than life!—
By France what English hearts were gor'd,
What crests were cleft by Britain's sword,
When horse and foot infuriate met,
And sabre clash'd with bayonet,
And how they fought and how they fell,
And man and steed, 'midst shout and yell,
The field of carnage strew'd;
It were a tedious tale to tell,
A tedious tale of blood.

But when the fierce and cloudless sun
Blazed from his noontide height,
And ere the field was lost or won,
Worn and unable quite
The hostile stroke to make or shun,
Faint, breathless, all with toil foredone,
They paus'd amid the fight!
Oft, when the midnight tempests sweep
With fiercest fury o'er the deep,
Short, sullen pauses intervene,
And, ev'ry fitful gust between,
The stormy roar is still'd:
Thus was the rage of battle staid,
And clash of bayonet and blade

Subsided o'er the field:
Hush'd was the shout, the tumult laid,
And each receding line obey'd
The truce which weary nature made,
And mutual honour seal'd.

XXII.

There is a brook, that from its source,
High in the rocky hill,
Pours o'er the plain its limpid course,
To pay to Teio's monarch force
Its tributary rill;
Which, in the peaceful summer tide,
The swarthy shepherd sits beside,

And loitering, as it rolls along
In cadence pours his rustic song;
Carol of love or pious chaunt,
Or tale of knight and giant gaunt,
And lady captive held;
Or strains, not fabled, of the war,
Where the great champion of Bivar
The Moorish pagan quell'd.
But now, no shepherd loiters there—
He flies, with all his fleecy care,
To mountains high and far,
And starts, and breathless stops to hear
Borne on the breeze, and to his fear
Seeming, at every gust, more near,
The distant roar of war.

XXIII.

But on the streamlet's margin green
Other than shepherd forms are seen;
And sounds, unlike the rustic song,
The troubled current rolls along;
When, of the cooling wave to taste,
From either host the warriors haste
With busy tread and hum:
You would have thought that streamlet bound
Were listed field or sacred ground
Where battle might not come.
So late in adverse contest tried,
So deep in recent carnage dyed,
To mutual honour they confide
Their mutual fates; nor shrink

To throw the cap and helm aside,
As, mingled o'er the narrow tide,
They bend their heads to drink;
Or, nature's feverish wants supplied,
Unarm'd, unguarded, side by side,
Safe in a soldier's faith and pride
They rest them on the brink.
They speak not—in each others phrase
Unskill'd—but yet the thoughts of praise,
And honour to unfold,
The heart has utterance of its own;
And ere the signal trump was blown,
And ere the drum had roll'd,
The honest grasp of manly hands,
That common link of distant lands,

That sign which nature understands,
The generous feeling told:
The high and sacred pledge it gave,
That both were true, and both were brave,
And something added of regret,
At parting when so lately met,
And (not developed quite)
Some dubious hopes of meeting yet
As heaven their devious paths might set,
In friendship or in fight.

XXIV.

But short the truce that they can keep—
For now the signals shrill

Sounding along, from plain and steep,
Longer forbid the fight to sleep;
Light from the ground the warriors leap,
And seize the rein and steel:
All arm'd, all ardent, all array'd,
Again their weapons wield;
And echoing thro' the livid shade,
The clash of bayonet and blade
Revives along the field.
The hurried fight from post to post,
Kindles, but on the center most,
Whence, hoping on a happier stage,
The renovated war to wage,
France now assails the hill,

And pours with aggregated rage
The storm of fire and steel;
Soon from the eye the hostile crowd
The gathering shade conceals,
While from its bosom, long and loud,
Like thunder from a vernal cloud,
The din of battle peals.

XXV.

Still when the freshening breezes broke
A chasm in the volumed smoke,
Busy and black was seen to wave
The iron harvest of the field,—
That harvest, which, in slaughter till'd,

Is gathered in the grave:—
And now before their mutual fires
They yield, and now advance;
And now 'tis Britain that retires,
And now the line of France:
They struggle long with changeful fate,
And all the battle's various cries
Now depress'd, and now elate,
In mingled clamours rise;
Till France at length before the weight
Of British onset flies:
‘Forward,’ the fiery victors shout,
‘Forward, the enemy's in rout,
‘Pursue him and he dies!’

XXVI.

Hot and impetuous they pursued,
And wild with carnage, drunk with blood,
Rush'd on the plain below;
The wily Frenchman saw and stood—
Screen'd by the verges of the wood
He turn'd him on the foe.
The gallant bands that guard the crown
Of England, led the battle down,
And, in their furious mood,
Thrice they essay'd with onset fierce,
Thrice fail'd, collected France to pierce—
Still France collected, stood!
While full on each uncover'd flank
Cannon and mortar swept their rank,

And many a generous Briton sank
Before the dreadful blaze;
Yet 'midst that dreadful blaze and din
Fearless the shout they raise,
And ever, as their numbers thin,
Fresh spirits rush unbidden in,
Thoughtless, but how the meed to win
Of peril and of praise.
And still, as with a blacker shade
Fortune obscures the day,
Commingled thro' the fight they wade,
And hand to hand and blade to blade,
Their blind and furious efforts braid,
As if, still dark and disarray'd,
They fought the midnight fray.

XXVII.

In vain.—New hopes and fresher force
Inspirit France, and urge her course,
A torrent, rapid, wild, and hoarse,
On Britain's wavering train.
As when, before the wintery skies,
The struggling forests sink and rise,
And rise and sink again,
While the gale scatters as it flies
Their ruins o'er the plain;
Before the tempest of her foes,
So England sank, and England rose,
And, though still rooted in the vale,
Strew'd her rent branches on the gale.

Then, Wellesley! on thy tortured thought
With ripening hopes of glory fraught,
What honest anguish crost!
Oh, how thy generous bosom burn'd,
To see the tide of victory turn'd,
And Spain and England lost!—
Lost—but that, as the peril great,
And rising with the storms of fate
His rapid genius soars,
Sees, at a glance, his whole resource,
Drains from each stronger point its force,
And on the weaker pours:
Present where'er his soldiers bleed,
He rushes thro' the fray,

And, (so the doubtful chances need,)
In high emprize and desperate deed,
Squanders himself away!

XXVIII.

Now from the summit, at his call,
A gallant legion firm and slow
Advances on victorious Gaul;
Undaunted, though their comrades fall!
Unshaken, though their leader's low!
Fix'd—as the high and buttress'd mound,
That guards some leaguer'd city round,
They stand unmoved—Behind them form
The scatter'd fragments of the storm;
While on their sheltering front, amain

France drives, with all her thundering train,
Her full career of death:
But drives not long her full career,
For now that living bulwark near,
Fault'ring, between fatigue and fear
She stops and pants for breath:—
That dubious pause, that wavering rest,
The Britons seize, and breast to breast
Opposing, havoc's arm arrest,
And from the foe's exulting crest,
Tear down the laurel wreath.

XXIX.

Nor does the gallant foe resign,
Even while his hopes and strength decline,

A tame inglorious prize;—
Long, long on Britain's rallied line
The deadly fire he plies;
Long, long where Britain's banners shine
He vainly toils and dies!
Ne'er to a battle's fiercer groan
Did mountain echo roar,
Nor ever evening blush upon
A redder field of gore.
But feebler now, and feebler still,
The panting French assail the hill,
And weaker grows their cannon's roar,
And thinner falls their missile shower,
Fainter their clanging steel;

The hot and furious fit is o'er,
They shout, they charge, they stand no more,
And staggering in the slippery gore,
Their very leaders reel.

XXX.

But shooting high and rolling far,
What new and horrid face of war
Now flushes on the sight?
'Tis France, as furious she retires,
That wreaks, in desolating fires,
The vengeance of her flight.
Already parch'd by summer's sun,
The grassy vale the flames o'er-run;

And, sweeping wreath'd and light
Before the wind, the thickets seize,
And climb the dry and withered trees,
In flashes long and bright.
Oh! 'twas a scene sublime and dire,
To see that billowy sea of fire,
Rolling its flaky tide
O'er cultured field and tangled wood,
And drowning in the flaming flood,
The seasons' hope and pride!

XXXI.

From Talavera's wall and tower,
And from the mountain's height,

Where they had stood for many an hour,
To view the varying fight,
Burghers and peasants in amaze
Behold their groves and vineyards blaze:
Calm they had view'd the bloody fray,
And little thought that France's groan
And England's sigh, ere close of day,
Should mingle with their own!
But ah! far other cries than these
Are wafted on the dismal breeze—
Groans, not the wounded's lingering groan—
Shrieks, not the shriek of death alone—
But groan, and shriek, and yell,
Of terror, torture, and despair;

Such as 'twould chill the heart to hear,
And freeze the tongue to tell;
When to the very field of fight,
Dreadful alike in sound and sight,
The conflagration spread,
Involving in its fiery wave,
The brave and reliques of the brave—
The dying and the dead!

XXXII.

And now again the evening sheds
Her dewy veil on Teio's side,
And from the Sierra's rocky heads,
The giant shadows stride;

And all is dim and dark again—
Save here and there upon the plain,
As if from funeral pyres,
Casting a dull and flickering light
Across the umber'd face of night,
Still flash the baleful fires.
But since the close of yester-e'en,
How alter'd is the martial scene!
Again, in night's surrounding veil,
France moves her busy bands—but now
She comes not, venturous, to assail
The victors in their guarded vale,
Or on the mountain's brow—
Dash'd from her triumph's windy car

She mourns the wayward fate of war,
And baffled and dishearten'd, o'er
Alberche's stream, and from his shore,
With silent haste she speeds,
Nor dares, ev'n at that midnight hour,
To snatch the rest she needs;
Far from the field where late she fought—
The tents where late she lay—
With rapid step and humbled thought,
All night she holds her way:
Leaving to Britain's conquering sons,
Standards rent and ponderous guns,
The trophies of the fray!
The weak, the wounded, and the slain—

The triumph of the battle plain—
The glory of the day!

XXXIII.

I would not check the tender sigh,
Nor chide the pious tear,
That heaves the heart and dims the eye,
For friend or kinsman dear;
Ev'n when their honoured reliques lie
On victory's proudest bier;
But I would say, for those that die
In honour's high career,
For those in glory's grave who sleep,
Weep fondly, but, exulting, weep!

More freshly from the untimely tomb
Renown's eternal laurels bloom,
With sullen cypress twined.
Fortune is fickle and unsure,
And worth and fame to be secure
Must be in death enshrin'd!

XXXIV.

I too have known what 'tis to part
With the first inmate of my heart;
To feel the bonds of nature riven,
To witness o'er the glowing dawn,
The spring of youth, the fire of heaven,
The grave's deep shadows drawn!

He sleeps not on the gory plain
The slumber of the brave—
Dear Victim of disease, and pain,
Where high Madeira's summits reign
Far o'er the Atlantic wave,
He sought eluding health—in vain—
Health never lit his eye again,
He fills a foreign grave!
Oh, had he lived, his hand to-day
Had woven for the victor's brow,
Such garland of immortal bay,
Such chaplet as the enraptured lay
Of genius may bestow!
Or, since 'twas Heaven's severer doom

To snatch him to an earlier tomb;
Would, Wellesley, would that he had died
Beneath thine eye and at thy side!
It would have lighten'd sorrow's load,
Had thy applause on him bestow'd
The fame he loved in thee;
And rear'd his honoured tomb beside
Those of the gallant hearts who died,
Their kinsmen's, friends', and country's pride,
In Talavera's victory!

WAR SONG.

1803.

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

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

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

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

SONGS OF TRAFALGAR.

1805.

I.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

1805.

II.

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

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

But, hark! amidst the joyous shout,
For Spain's defeat, and France's rout:
But, hark! amidst the glad acclaim
Of England's honour, Nelson's fame,
What deep and sullen sounds arise?
Are these, alas! victorious cries?

Boad they a widow'd nation's woe;
The triumph vain, and Nelson low?—
In his full glory's brightest blaze,
On the high summit of his deeds,
While Victory's saintly halo plays,
With living fire,—immortal rays,—
Around his head, the Hero bleeds;
In pomp of death, to mortal eyes
Never before revealed, the Hero dies.

He dies! but while on Egypt's strand
The Ptolomean tower shall stand;—
Stain'd with the turbid streams of Nile,
While seas shall beat Aboukir's isle;—

While the white ocean breaks and roars
On Trafalgar's immortal shores;—
While high St. Vincent's towery steep,
And, giant of the Atlantic deep,
Dark Teneriffe, like beacons, guide
The wanderers of the western wave;
Sublime shall stand, amid the tide
Of baffled Time,—his country's pride—
The sacred memory of the brave;
And Nelson's emulated name
Shine the proud sea-mark to the ports of Fame!

1805.

III.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

1805.

IV.

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

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

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

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

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

High, then, the monumental pile
Erect, for Nelson of the Nile!
Of Trafalgar, and Vincent's heights,
For Nelson of the hundred fights—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Worthy of Nelson of the Nile!
Of Nelson of the cloud-capped Isle,
Of Trafalgar and Vincent's heights,
Of Nelson of the hundred fights!

TO HIM WHO DESPAIRS OF SPAIN.

1809.

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

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

Oh, no; tho' France's murderous hand
Should sweep the desolated land,
Revenge will still remain:—
Smother'd, but not extinguish'd quite,

A spark will live, in time will light,
And fire the lengthning train.—
Stung by that pang which never dies,
Enthusiast millions shall arise,
And Europe echo to their cries,
Never Despair of Spain!