Stanzas, Composed on the Late Glorious Victories Obtained Over the French on the Peninsula by the Allied Forces Under the Command of the Most Noble Arthur, Marquis and Earl of Wellington. By J. R. Planché |
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 | Stanzas, Composed on the Late Glorious Victories Obtained Over the French on the Peninsula |  |
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Stanzas.
I.
Muse, wake thy lyre!Whether on high Parnassus' top reclin'd,
Inactively it lies;
Softly re-echoing the murm'ring wind,
That wanton sporting, through the cordage flies;
Or wandering thro' Heliconian bowers,
'Midst purling streams, and incense breathing flow'rs;
If happily thou attain'st each golden string,
Pouring sweet strains of harmony along;
Whilst borne recumbent on soft zephyr's wing,
Admiring sylphs hang list'ning to thy song;
Tune! tune it higher!
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With Io! Io! Triumphœ! resound:
For vict'ry's won,
By Britain's favorite Son,
The great, the gallant, glorious Wellington!
II.
See, where enthron'd, amidst etherial skies,Hesperia weeps her hapless land;
Downwards she casts her sad despairing eyes,
Where purple torrents stain the strand.
Heart rending sight!
Behold! where striding o'er the plain,
Murder lurking in his frown,
Lust and rapine in his train,
The tyrant of the iron crown .
Reckless he of truth and right;
Europe's despot, scourge, and ban;
Still triumphing in his might,
Scorns the laws of God and man.
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Urging on his foul career;
Insatiate friend! still, still aspiring,
All possessing—more requiring:
First dire cause of man's disgrace;
Fellest foe of human race.
III.
Last, mounted on his iron car,Tours the dreadful god of war,
In beaming armour dight.
O'er his glittering crest on high,
Blood-red plumes tremendous fly;
Like the meteor's ruddy glare,
Sailing through the midnight air:
One hand impells his coal-black steeds.
That proudly toss their plumed heads;
And, impatient of the rein,
Champ the bit, and spurn the plain:
Whilst o'er his head his better hand,
Wields the gleaming deadly brand,
And animates the fight.
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IV.
Ill starr'd Iberia! hapless, hapless land!On thee had Nature, in a happy hour,
Lavish'd her favors with a liberal hand,
And deign'd her choicest gifts on thee to pour.
The varied beauties of the rolling year,
In their sublimest scenery appear.
Behold, where widely stretching o'er the plain,
The Pyrenees extend their mountain chain,
Rearing their rugged frontlets to the sky:
There winter ever reigns in icy vest;
And on their snow-crown'd summits high,
The tow'ring eagle builds her airy nest.
Change we the scene:—view old Granada's plain,
So justly term'd the “Paradise of Spain.”
Here may the eye delighted rove,
O'er mount and dale, o'er wood and grove;
The moss clad hill, with verdant foliage crown'd,
The heathy dell, the sweet sequester'd glade;
Where citron and orange groves abound,
And limes and cork trees spread their ample shade.
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The tender orchis waves its insect sail;
And, perch'd the aromatic shrubs among,
The sweet cicada trills her plaintive song.
V.
High o'er yon tuft of trees majestic riseAlhambra's gothic spires;
Where erst the turban'd Moor, in kingly pride,
Iberia's utmost power with scorn defied.
E'en now, in fancy, o'er yon turret flies,
The banner'd crescent; whilst the busy hum
Of caftan'd warriors, and the loud alarms
Of brazen clarions, and the clang of arms;
The clashing cymbol, Moorish fife, and drum,
Each breast with glory fires!
'Tis past! 'tis gone.
Imagination's vivid colors fade;
'Tis desert all! now ruinous and lone.
No more the fretted roofs resound,
To harp or timbrel's lively sound,
Or simple ditty, sung by Moorish maid.
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VI.
What, tho' the Saracen no longer reigns,In lordly triumph, o'er Iberia's plains;
Still tyranny her iron sceptre wields,
For Gallia's despot, stern Napoleon?
To place a tyrant brother on the throne,
Razes her towns, and ravages her fields;
Who can withstand the torrent's force?
Who can stay the light'ning ball?
Who can curb the tyrant's course;
Or bravely for his country fall?
Say what refulgent beam of light
O'er the land diffuses wide?
'Tis Britannia's genius bright!
Patriotism at her side.
VII.
“Rise!” she exclaims, “ye Spaniards brave;“O'er your head your falchions fling:
“Rise! your wretched country save;
“Rise! redeem your captive king.
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“O'er the seas their vessels ride;
“Waving high the glitt'ring blade,
“Come Briton's sons, her strength, and pride.
“Rouse! assert your country's right;
“Think! O think! on Pavia's day!
“Glory calls you to the fight!
“Haste to conquest, haste away!”
Every breast with ardour glows;
Quick they draw the shining steel:
Onwards rush to meet their foes,
Vengeance on their heads to deal.
From shore to shore resounds the cry,
Ferdinand and Liberty.
VIII.
Lo! eager for the fight,View Albion's marshall'd host in stern array,
By Wel'sley led!
Bright on their shining arms the sunbeams play;
At the dread sight,
Gaul's rav'ning eagle cow'ring hides her head.
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Widow'd the hopes of Gallia's land;
A galling tale to France those fields still tell,
Where Manners fought , and Abercrombie fell .
And now in arms bedight
Come Albion's sons, to gather new renown,
And add fresh wreaths to Wel'sley's laurell'd crown.
IX.
But pause, my Muse, amidst thy song,Awhile let Vict'ry droop her trophied head;
Whilst solemnly thou pour'st along,
A mournful lament to the glorious dead.
To Moore, regretted chief! drop one sad tear;
Heave one sad sigh to Palafox's bier.
Hero of Saragossa! long shall fame,
From age to age, immortalize his name:
Grav'd on each Spanish heart thy deeds shall stand,
The pride and glory of thy native land.
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X.
Not less, ill-fated Moore, thy loss we mourn;With tears Britannia laves thy funeral urn.
In the glad hour of glorious victory,
Like gallant Nelson, you resign'd your breath:
Like him, for thee we heave the heartfelt sigh,
And twine the cypress with the laurel wreath.
Peace to your souls, ye warriors brave,
In Freedom's cause who found a grave,
And nobly dar'd to die:
Long shall your deeds in hist'ry's page,
Grace the fair annals of the Georgian age;
'Till vanquish'd time's last ling'ring stage,
Is lost amidst the mazes of eternity!
XI.
Now from Barossa's plain,Hark! how the war cry rends the vale;
List! 'tis the shout of victory—
It floats upon the gale:
The Gallic squadrons fly!
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The British bayonets strew the fields with slain;
And stalking o'er the piles of dead,
Red slaughter claps her wings and proudly rears her head.
XII.
Oh! for the skill of Scotia's matchless bard ,To sing thy actions, and record thy fame;
Chieftain renown'd!
From a long line of ancestry descended,
Who faith and truth with knightly valour blended;
And sword in hand,
Bravely the rights and liberty defended
Of Scotia's land.
The bards of other days are gone;
They sleep beneath the cold grey stone!
But when the halls of many a steel girt laird,
Or fairy bower of many a high born dame,
Rang with the harp's blythe sound;
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To sing the glorious deeds, the prowess of the Græme .
XIII.
Long had the northern harp in silence hung,Those halls were ruins where it erst had hung;
Cold were the hands that stray'd the chords among;
Deaf were those ears which listen'd to its song.
But Scott once more awak'd its slumb'ring string,
And soar'd sublime on fancy's sportive wing!
Presumptuous 'twere, and vain, for me t' aspire,
With feeble hands to sweep the sounding lyre.
Thy deeds, brave Græme, a nobler bard require;
Be thine, O Scott! the task to wake the strain,
To sing the glories of Barossa's plain;
In numbers worthy him, and worthy you;
To give his merits all their due—
His actions all their fire!
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XIV.
One genuine flame of patriotic zeal,Each Spanish breast with noble ardour warms;
Leon, Asturias, Arragon, Castile,
Murcia, and Catalonia, fly to arms.
A thousand banners in the sunbeams play,
A thousand falchions glitter in its ray;
And nodding crests,
And gorgeous vests,
Resplendent shining, form a mimic day.
Albion, Iberia, Lusia , all combin'd,
(Against the common foe of human kind)
Gallia's fell eagle, at the glorious sight,
Shrinks back alarm'd, and checks her rapid flight.
Dread rages war on Talavera's field;
Ciudad Rodrigo, and Badajoz yield:
Town, fortress, province soon our arms regain;
Vict'ry on vict'ry crowns the hopes of Spain.
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XV.
Bursting with rage,Inglorious Joseph quits precipitate
His ill got power;
Whilst on his gloomy brow, revenge and hate
Are darkly seen to low'r.
As to his ruffian horde
He gives the word,
For plunder!
Nor sex, nor age,
Nor e'en the convent's sainted spires,
Can curb their fierce, insatiate desires.
The gates are burst asunder;
And rushing through the hallowed pile,
Through every corridor and aisle,
The sacramental plate they dare
From God's own holy altar tear;
The holy host where jewels shine;
And snatch the sainted relics from the shrine.
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XVI.
And will not this destruction bringOn the usurping robber king?
Yes—surely yes! the venging blow
Of Heaven is sure, tho' sometimes slow;
And soon, or later, shall the bolt of fate
Hurl the fell tyrant headlong from his state.
XVII.
Fair o'er Iberia's hills arose the sun,Bright shone its rays on many a warrior knight;
Whose star of glory, ere the day was done,
Alas! was doom'd to set in endless night.
Now down the green hill's sloping side,
The patriot army's vanguard 'gins to wind,
'Midst myrtle groves, and thick embow'ring shades,
O'er campaign country, and thro' verdant glades;
Whilst far behind—
Slowly o'er the mountain's ridge,
Along the plain, across the bridge,
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Bright on their arms the sun beams glancing;
Brisk on the gale the banners dancing;
The thrilling trumpet's son'rous bray,
Echoing to the courser's neigh,
Elates each soldier's heart with martial pride.
XVIII.
Now silence has resum'd her solemn reign,O'er the hill, and o'er the dale;
Save when at intervals a strain
Of martial music floats upon the gale.
Fainter and fainter growing still,
As they wind around the hill;
'Till every thing is hush'd around,
Save the river's rushing sound;
Or the goatherd's rustic lay,
O'er the mountains as they stray.
XIX.
Now as the mists of morning fade away,Before Benignant Sol's all-cheering ray,
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Salamanca's spires arise:
There, underneath her ancient towers,
Gallia encamps her hostile powers;
Doom'd upon that fatal plain
To decide the cause of Spain.
Now the hollow sounding drum
Beats to arms—they come! they come!
See England's lion banner wave,
Over pike, and helm, and glaive;
And Spain and Lusia's ensigns fair,
Streaming thro' the ambient air:
Whilst throughout the martial band,
Runs the glorious command—
“Charge, Britons, charge! On, Spaniards, on !”
'Tis vict'ry calls you, follow Wellington!
XX.
Now the lately peaceful plain,Echoes with the din of war;
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Stern Mars impells his crimson car.
Thirst for plunder Gaul inspires;
A just revenge the Spaniard fires:
Eager each to prove their might,
Rush impetuous to the fight.
Thro' Gallia's ranks our horsemen dashing,
Spread destruction all around;
Whilst contending bay'nets clashing,
Strew with dead th' ensanguin'd ground.
Douro's bright and limpid water,
Ceases its green banks to lave;
And, astonish'd at the slaughter,
Seaward rolls its blushing wave.
XXI.
Now thro' the hostile bands,Death stalks triumphant with gigantic stride;
And, grimly smiling, claps with fell delight
His skeleton hands;
Exulting as he views the thick'ning fight,
And fields with carnage died:
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A whizzing bullet wing'd its airy way;
Nor was its errand vain;
For mounted on a fiery snorting steed,
Brave Marmont, rallying his fear-struck host,
Receiv d the fatal ball.
Prone from his courser's back the chiefstain fell,
Prostrate upon the plain; and with him fall
Each empty boast,
And air-built hope, of vain aspiring Gaul.
XXII.
'Midst their thinn'd ranks confusion holds her reign;And fear, with haggard eye,
Points to the wav'ring Gauls the corse strew'd plain,
And urges them to fly.
As when old Nile's salubrious flood
O'erflows its banks, and rushes o'er the strands;
Nor tree, nor tower can stop its rapid course,
O'erwhelming all with one tremendous force:
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Rush'd Gallia's panic-stricken bands;
Tumultuous scouring o'er the heath,
Follow'd by shame, defeat, and death;
And, under cover of the darkling night,
Sought safety in immediate flight.
XXIII.
Where'er their scatter'd parties stray,Direful vengeance marks their way.
Through the crackling cottage roof,
The flames in forky columns rise,
Tinging night's ebon wing with dusky red:
The frighten'd peasants stand aloof,
And view the blaze with streaming eyes,
Calling for vengeance on the tyrant's head.
Thus with ruin in their train,
Deluging the fertile plain,
Segovia's towers at last they gain,
Where erst their recreant phantom king had fled.
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XXIV.
Rear! rear! our conquering banners high;Awake, harmonious nine, the tuneful string:
Sound! sound! your notes of victory!
The triumph of Britannia's sons to sing.
Let the brazen trump of fame,
Tell the world with loud acclaim,
Conquest has crown'd her darling son,
On Salamanca's glorious plain;
Marmont's subdued by Wellington;
Freedom shines once more in Spain.
For this, heroic chief, thy name
Immortalized shall be;
Supporter of our British fame!
Restorer of Iberia's liberty!
No tongue but on thy head its blessing pours;
No lay but owns thee for its glorious theme;
From Britain's soil, to India's sultry shores,
From Ganges' rolling flood, to Tejos' murm'ring stream.
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XXV.
As tow'rs a rock amidst the roaring tide,Frowning contemptuous on the waves below,
That harmless break against its rugged side,
And strive in vain to work its overthrow;
So shall bright fame thy actions raise,
Beyond the flight of time's swift wing;
Firm on the highest pinnacle of fame,
Posterity shall reverence thy name;
Malice be mute, and envy lose its sting;
Whilst thou and England's chosen few,
Shall reap the guerdon to your merits due;
The warrior's glorious meed—a grateful nation's praise.
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L'Envoy.
I.
The setting sun sinks in the west,The red flamingoe seeks her nest;
The weary goatherds cease to roam,
And joyful seek their mountain home.
Before the cot, upon the grass,
Each Andalusian lad and lass,
(When brightly shines the evening star)
Briskly trip fandangos round,
To the rebeck's lively sound;
Or seguedellas sweet, to tinkling guitar.
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II.
Genius of Poesy, farewell!Thy task is o'er:
The mists are rising from the lake;
Still silence holds her reign o'er bush and brake;
Save where the neighb'ring convent's vesper bell
Chimes sullen o'er the moor.
Thine is the power to soothe the wretch's woe,
To warm the soul with sympathetic glow;
To charm the drooping heart to grief a prey,
To while the heavy hours with merry lay,
And cheer with rustic song the goatherd's lonely way.
Farewell, thou minstrel maid; thy form ascending,
Still gradually lessons on my view;
'Till with its kindred skies thy spirit blending,
Melts into air amidst th' etherial blue,
And fades upon my aching sight—adieu! adieu! adieu!
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Finis.
| Stanzas, Composed on the Late Glorious Victories Obtained Over the French on the Peninsula | |