BATTLE OF BUSACO; DELIVERANCE OF PORTUGAL.
THE breeze sighed sadly o'er the midnight flood; On Lisbon's towers Don Henry's spirit stood; He wore not helm, he wore not casque; his
Streamed like a funeral banner in the air;
In mournful attitude, with aspect drear,
He held reversed his country's guardian spear;
Dark was his eye and gloomy was his brow,
He gazed with sternness on the wave below;
Then thrice aloft the deathful spear he shook,
While sorrow's torrent from his bosom broke :—
"Friends! may the angel of destruction shed
This blood-red cup of horrors on your head!
Throughout your camp may hell-born demons
play,
Grin ruin to your host, and howl dismay !
Was it for this, dear, desolated shore !
I taught proud Commerce here her gifts to pour,
Allured from fairer Italy the maid,
And here the ground-works of the empire laid? Is there a bolt to mortal guidance given ?—
Where are the thundering delegates of Heaven?—
Through Europe's plains the tyrant's voice is
And blood-red Anarchy her flag has reared,
Rolled round her gorgon eyes from native France, And petrified the nations with a glance; Affrighted Italy her blasted vines
Has dropped, and Spain let fall her orange lines, And tough Teutonic forests, though they broke Awhile her force, yet yielded to the stroke. Where shall I turn, where find the free, the brave,
A heart to pity, and an arm to save?
To Britain, glorious Britain, will I call,
Her bulwark, valour,—and the sea, her wall.
Around her crest Gaul's javelins idly play,
And glance with baffled impotence away ;
Her hands the reddening bolts of vengeance
bear,
Fate's on her helm, and death upon her spear;
She scorns at Victory's shrine her vows to pay;
She grasps the laurel, she commands the day.
England, what! ho!"-as thus the spectre
spoke,
All Lisbon's turrets to their bases shook :"England, what! ho!"-again the spectre cried, And trembling Tagus heaved with all his tide,— "England, to arms!-at this dread call, advance! Assist, defend, protect !-now tremble, France"!
He spoke, then plunged into the river's breast, And Tagus wrapt him in his billowy vest.
O'er seas, o'er shores the solemn summons
It rode upon the pinions of the blast.
The midnight shades are gone, the glooms are
See! the dawn broke as Britain reared her head!
With Albion's spear upon her shield she smote;
Through every island rung the inspiring note.
Roused at the sound, the English lion rose,
And burnt to meet hereditary foes;
From Highland rocks came every Scottish clan ;
Forward rushed Erin's sons, and led the van.
The Usurper shook, then sent each chief of
name,
Partners of Victory, sharers of his fame, Who bore Gaul's standard through the hostile throng,
While Lodi trembled as they rushed along;
Who traversed Egypt's plains and Syria's waste,
And left a red memorial where they passed;
Who bathed, 'midst French and Austrian heaps
of slain,
Their gory footsteps on Marengo's plain :
And those who laid the Prussian glories low,
Yet felt a Brunswick's last expiring blow;
Who on Vimeira's heights were taught to feel,
The vengeful fury of a freeman's steel;
Who hung on British Moore in his retreat,
And purchased dear experience by defeat.
Such were the chiefs that Gaul's battalia led ;-
Yet England came, they met her, and they fled.
At dark Busaco's foot stood France's might,
The hopes of Britain occupied the height.
Gaul's mantling terrors to the summit tend,-
Hold, Britain, charge not,-the attack suspend ;-
Hushed be the British whirlwind,—not a breath
Be heard within thy host,-be still as death !—
With gathering gloom comes France's dark
array,-
Rest, Britain, on thy arms,-thy march delay-
See! France has gained the summit of the hill!
See! she advances! Soldier, yet be still-
She's at our bayonets,-touches every gun,—
Now speed thee, England! and the work is
done.-
Now where is France ?-Yon mountain heap of dead,
Yon scattered band, will tell you how they sped;
The dying groan, the penetrating yell,
May tell how quick she sunk, how soon she fell ;
Her sons are gone, her choicest blood is spilt,
Her brightest spear is shivered to the hilt.
Nor ceased they here; but from the mountain
height
Tempestuous Britain rolls to meet the fight,
Pours the full tide of battle o'er the plain,
And whelms beneath the waves its adverse train ;
The vanquished squadrons dread an added loss;
They skulk behind the rampart and the fosse ;—
Why lingers Wellesley? Does he fear their
force?
Dreads he their foot, or trembles at their horse?
Alas! by hands unseen he deals the blow,
By hands unseen he prostrates every foe.
One night-(and France still shudders at that
night,
Pregnant with death, with horror, and affright ;)
One night-on plans of victory intent,
A spy into the hostile camp he sent ;
It was a wretch, decrepit, shrivelled, wild,—
A haggard visage that had never smiled;
The miscreant's jaws were never seen to close,
The miscreant's eyes had never known repose :—
Swift to the Gallic camp she sped her way,
And Britain's soldiers, ere the dawn of day,
Heard through the hostile tents her footstep's
For Famine-raging Famine claimed her dead!
With frantic haste they fled the fatal post,
Long boldly held-now miserably lost;
Dismay, confusion through the rout appear,
Victorious Britain hangs upon their rear.
No, sweet Humanity! I dare not tell,
How infants bled, how mothers, husbands fell;
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