Yes, ere that hour there's vengeance still;For now towards Talavera's hill
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 dreary waste:
Who Prussia's shiver'd sceptre hurl'd
Down to the earth, and from the world
Her very name eras'd;
Who boast them, in presumptuous tone,
Each feat and fortune to have known
Of war, except defeat alone;
But now of that to taste;
For him, long tried in battle storms,
Him, who in Ind's unequal war
Scatter'd, like dust, the sable swarms
Of Scindiah and Berar;
Him, conqueror still where er he turns,
Whether on Zealand's frozen reign,
Or where the sultry summer burns,
Vimiera's Lusitanian plain;
Who, from his tyrant station shook,
With grasp of steel, Abrantes' Duke;
Who, from old Douro's rescued side,
Dispers'd Dalmatia's upstart pride ;
Him, not Sebastiani's will,
Nor practis'd Jourdan's veteran fame,
Nor, Victor, thy portentous name,
In this day's fight shall foil.
Valiant, tho' vain; tho' boastful, wise,
Marshals and Dukes, with skilful eyes
You view the allied line;
And well your prudent councils weigh
Th' eventful danger of that day,
Where Wellesley's star's teriffic ray,.
And Britain's red-cross shine..
And while they shine, tho' you should foil
The Spanish spear, 'twere fruitless toil-
Not half a victory!
Nothing is done, 'till Britain's spoil
On France's crest you see;
Full then on her the torrent course
Of battle drive, and all your force,
Your universal train
Expend on her, and her alone;
Be the whole gather'd storm her own,
Her peril and her pain!
Press her with growing thousands round,
Dash that red banner to the ground,
And seal the fate of Spain!
Now from the dark artillery broke
Lightning flash and thunder stroke,
And volumn'd clouds of fiery smoke
Roll in the darken'd air;
Wrapp'd in its shade, unheard, unseen,
Artful surprize and onset keen
The nimble French prepare :
On the whole allied line they throw
Their wide extended host,
Centre, and left and right, nor show
What point they threaten most.
But Wellesley, undeceiv'd, the brunt
Of war expects on Britain's front;
But strengthens most the vaward ranks
That hang along the mountain banks;
For well he judges Gallia still
Is bent to seize that blood-stain'd hill,
Strain all her force, exhaust her skill,
To plant her eagles there;
That soon, from that commanding height,
May speed their devastating flight,
And sweeping o'er the scatter'd plain,
The hopes of England and of Spain
With iron talon tear.
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 murd'rous 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 deaf'ning clang and tread"A charge, a charge!" the British cry, And Seymour at its head!
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 thund'ring arm
"In rout and ruin bleed!"
Quick, as the haste of his commands,
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, Crushed 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 dash along,
Too prodigal of life;
And had they died, aye every one,
But Wellesley cries, " On, Anson, on,
"Langworth, and Albuquerque, and Payne,
"Lead Britain, Hanover and Spain,
"And turn th' unequal strife!"
Now from the plain and every steep
A thousand thunders peal;
Again the vollied tempests sweep,
And sulph'ry vapours, dark and deep,
The meeting armies veil;
The kindling fight at every post
Blazes, but towards the centre most,
Whence, hoping on a happier stage
The renovated war to wage,
France now as the hill,
And pours, with aggregated rage,
The storm of fire and steel;
And when the fresh'ning breezes broke
A chasm in the volumn'd smoke,
Busy and black was seen to wave
The iron harvest of the field,
That harvest, which in slaughter till'd,
Is gather'd 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 deprest 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 to rout,
"Pursue him and he dies!"
Hot and impetuous they pursu'd,
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
The fearless shout they raise,
And ever, as their unibers thin,
Fresh spirits to the post rush in,
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.
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 wintry skies
The struggling forests sink and rise,
And rise and sink again,
While the gele scatters, as it flies,
Their ruins o'er the plain;
Before the tempest of her foes
So England sank, and England rose,
Tho' rooted in the vale.
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