In vain.—New hopes and fresher forceInspirit 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 fliesTheir 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 thoughtWith 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 greatAnd 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!
In vain.—New hopes and fresher forceInspirit 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 fliesTheir 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 thoughtWith 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 greatAnd 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!
In vain.—New hopes and fresher forceInspirit 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 fliesTheir 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 thoughtWith 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 greatAnd 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!
Now from the summit, at his call,A gallant legion firm and slowAdvances on victorious Gaul;Undaunted, though their comrades fall!Unshaken, though their leader’s low!Fix’d—as the high and buttress’d moundWhich guards some leaguer’d city round,They stand unmoved—Behind them formThe scatter’d fragments of the storm;While on their sheltering front, amainFrance 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 fearShe stops and pants for breath:That dubious pause, that wavering rest,The Britons seize, and breast to breastOpposing, havoc’s arm arrest,And from the foe’s exulting crest,Tear down the laurel wreath.
Now from the summit, at his call,A gallant legion firm and slowAdvances on victorious Gaul;Undaunted, though their comrades fall!Unshaken, though their leader’s low!Fix’d—as the high and buttress’d moundWhich guards some leaguer’d city round,They stand unmoved—Behind them formThe scatter’d fragments of the storm;While on their sheltering front, amainFrance 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 fearShe stops and pants for breath:That dubious pause, that wavering rest,The Britons seize, and breast to breastOpposing, havoc’s arm arrest,And from the foe’s exulting crest,Tear down the laurel wreath.
Now from the summit, at his call,A gallant legion firm and slowAdvances on victorious Gaul;Undaunted, though their comrades fall!Unshaken, though their leader’s low!Fix’d—as the high and buttress’d moundWhich guards some leaguer’d city round,They stand unmoved—Behind them formThe scatter’d fragments of the storm;While on their sheltering front, amainFrance 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 fearShe stops and pants for breath:That dubious pause, that wavering rest,The Britons seize, and breast to breastOpposing, havoc’s arm arrest,And from the foe’s exulting crest,Tear down the laurel wreath.
Nor does the gallant foe resign,Even while his hopes and strength decline,A tame inglorious prize;—Long, long on Britain’s rallied lineThe deadly fire he plies;Long, long where Britain’s banners shineHe vainly toils and dies!Ne’er to a battle’s fiercer groanDid mountain echo roar,Nor ever evening blush uponA 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.
Nor does the gallant foe resign,Even while his hopes and strength decline,A tame inglorious prize;—Long, long on Britain’s rallied lineThe deadly fire he plies;Long, long where Britain’s banners shineHe vainly toils and dies!Ne’er to a battle’s fiercer groanDid mountain echo roar,Nor ever evening blush uponA 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.
Nor does the gallant foe resign,Even while his hopes and strength decline,A tame inglorious prize;—Long, long on Britain’s rallied lineThe deadly fire he plies;Long, long where Britain’s banners shineHe vainly toils and dies!Ne’er to a battle’s fiercer groanDid mountain echo roar,Nor ever evening blush uponA 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.
But shooting high and rolling far,What new and horrid face of warNow 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 lightBefore 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 tideO’er cultured field and tangled wood,And drowning in the flaming floodThe seasons’ hope and pride!
But shooting high and rolling far,What new and horrid face of warNow 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 lightBefore 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 tideO’er cultured field and tangled wood,And drowning in the flaming floodThe seasons’ hope and pride!
But shooting high and rolling far,What new and horrid face of warNow 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 lightBefore 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 tideO’er cultured field and tangled wood,And drowning in the flaming floodThe seasons’ hope and pride!
From Talavera’s wall and towerAnd from the mountain’s height,Where they had stood for many an hourTo view the varying fight,Burghers and peasants in amazeBehold their groves and vineyards blaze:Calm they had view’d the bloody fray,And little thought that France’s groanAnd England’s sigh, ere close of day,Should mingle with their own!But ah! far other cries than theseAre 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 hearAnd 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 waveThe brave and reliques of the brave—The dying and the dead!
From Talavera’s wall and towerAnd from the mountain’s height,Where they had stood for many an hourTo view the varying fight,Burghers and peasants in amazeBehold their groves and vineyards blaze:Calm they had view’d the bloody fray,And little thought that France’s groanAnd England’s sigh, ere close of day,Should mingle with their own!But ah! far other cries than theseAre 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 hearAnd 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 waveThe brave and reliques of the brave—The dying and the dead!
From Talavera’s wall and towerAnd from the mountain’s height,Where they had stood for many an hourTo view the varying fight,Burghers and peasants in amazeBehold their groves and vineyards blaze:Calm they had view’d the bloody fray,And little thought that France’s groanAnd England’s sigh, ere close of day,Should mingle with their own!But ah! far other cries than theseAre 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 hearAnd 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 waveThe brave and reliques of the brave—The dying and the dead!
And now again the evening shedsHer dewy veil on Teio’s side,And from the Sierra’s rocky headsThe giant shadows stride;And all is dim and dark again—Save here and there upon the plain,Still flash the baleful fires,Across the umber’d face of nightCasting a dull and flickering light,As if from funeral pyres.But since the close of yester-e’enHow alter’d is the martial scene!Again, in night’s surrounding veil,France moves her busy bands—but nowShe comes not, venturous, to assailThe victors in their guarded vale,Or on the mountain’s brow—Dash’d from her triumph’s windy carShe mourns the wayward fate of war,And baffled and dishearten’d, o’erAlberche’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!
And now again the evening shedsHer dewy veil on Teio’s side,And from the Sierra’s rocky headsThe giant shadows stride;And all is dim and dark again—Save here and there upon the plain,Still flash the baleful fires,Across the umber’d face of nightCasting a dull and flickering light,As if from funeral pyres.But since the close of yester-e’enHow alter’d is the martial scene!Again, in night’s surrounding veil,France moves her busy bands—but nowShe comes not, venturous, to assailThe victors in their guarded vale,Or on the mountain’s brow—Dash’d from her triumph’s windy carShe mourns the wayward fate of war,And baffled and dishearten’d, o’erAlberche’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!
And now again the evening shedsHer dewy veil on Teio’s side,And from the Sierra’s rocky headsThe giant shadows stride;And all is dim and dark again—Save here and there upon the plain,Still flash the baleful fires,Across the umber’d face of nightCasting a dull and flickering light,As if from funeral pyres.But since the close of yester-e’enHow alter’d is the martial scene!Again, in night’s surrounding veil,France moves her busy bands—but nowShe comes not, venturous, to assailThe victors in their guarded vale,Or on the mountain’s brow—Dash’d from her triumph’s windy carShe mourns the wayward fate of war,And baffled and dishearten’d, o’erAlberche’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!
I would not check the tender sigh,Nor chide the pious tear,That heaves the heart and dims the eyeFor friend or kinsman dear;Ev’n when their honoured reliques lieOn victory’s proudest bier;But I would say, for those that dieIn honour’s high career,For those in glory’s grave who sleep,Weep fondly, but,exulting, weep!More freshly from the untimely tombRenown’s eternal laurels bloomWith sullen cypress twined.Fortune is fickle and unsure,And worth and fame to be secureMust be in death enshrin’d!
I would not check the tender sigh,Nor chide the pious tear,That heaves the heart and dims the eyeFor friend or kinsman dear;Ev’n when their honoured reliques lieOn victory’s proudest bier;But I would say, for those that dieIn honour’s high career,For those in glory’s grave who sleep,Weep fondly, but,exulting, weep!More freshly from the untimely tombRenown’s eternal laurels bloomWith sullen cypress twined.Fortune is fickle and unsure,And worth and fame to be secureMust be in death enshrin’d!
I would not check the tender sigh,Nor chide the pious tear,That heaves the heart and dims the eyeFor friend or kinsman dear;Ev’n when their honoured reliques lieOn victory’s proudest bier;But I would say, for those that dieIn honour’s high career,For those in glory’s grave who sleep,Weep fondly, but,exulting, weep!More freshly from the untimely tombRenown’s eternal laurels bloomWith sullen cypress twined.Fortune is fickle and unsure,And worth and fame to be secureMust be in death enshrin’d!
I too have known what ’tis to partWith 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 plainThe slumber of the brave—Dear Victim of disease, and pain,Where high Madeira’s summits reignFar 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-dayHad woven for the victor’s brow,Such garland of immortal bay,Such chaplet as the enraptured layOf genius may bestow!Or,—since ’twas Heaven’s severer doomTo snatch him to an earlier tomb—Would, Wellesley, would that he had diedBeneath thine eye and at thy side!It would have lighten’d sorrow’s load,Had thy applause on him bestow’dThe fame he loved in thee;And rear’d his honoured tomb besideThose of the gallant hearts who died,Their kinsmen’s, friends’, and country’s pride,In Talavera’s victory!
I too have known what ’tis to partWith 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 plainThe slumber of the brave—Dear Victim of disease, and pain,Where high Madeira’s summits reignFar 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-dayHad woven for the victor’s brow,Such garland of immortal bay,Such chaplet as the enraptured layOf genius may bestow!Or,—since ’twas Heaven’s severer doomTo snatch him to an earlier tomb—Would, Wellesley, would that he had diedBeneath thine eye and at thy side!It would have lighten’d sorrow’s load,Had thy applause on him bestow’dThe fame he loved in thee;And rear’d his honoured tomb besideThose of the gallant hearts who died,Their kinsmen’s, friends’, and country’s pride,In Talavera’s victory!
I too have known what ’tis to partWith 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 plainThe slumber of the brave—Dear Victim of disease, and pain,Where high Madeira’s summits reignFar 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-dayHad woven for the victor’s brow,Such garland of immortal bay,Such chaplet as the enraptured layOf genius may bestow!Or,—since ’twas Heaven’s severer doomTo snatch him to an earlier tomb—Would, Wellesley, would that he had diedBeneath thine eye and at thy side!It would have lighten’d sorrow’s load,Had thy applause on him bestow’dThe fame he loved in thee;And rear’d his honoured tomb besideThose of the gallant hearts who died,Their kinsmen’s, friends’, and country’s pride,In Talavera’s victory!
SUNG AT THE DINNER GIVEN BY THE GENTLEMEN FROM INDIA TO FIELD-MARSHAL THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON, K.G. MONDAY, JULY 11, 1814.
Victorof Assaye’s orient plain;—Victor of all the fields of Spain;—Victor of France’s despot reign;—Thy task of glory done!Welcome!—from dangers greatly dared;From triumphs, with the vanquish’d shared;From nations saved, and nations spared;Unconquer’d Wellington!—
Victorof Assaye’s orient plain;—Victor of all the fields of Spain;—Victor of France’s despot reign;—Thy task of glory done!Welcome!—from dangers greatly dared;From triumphs, with the vanquish’d shared;From nations saved, and nations spared;Unconquer’d Wellington!—
Victorof Assaye’s orient plain;—Victor of all the fields of Spain;—Victor of France’s despot reign;—Thy task of glory done!Welcome!—from dangers greatly dared;From triumphs, with the vanquish’d shared;From nations saved, and nations spared;Unconquer’d Wellington!—
Unconquer’d!yet thy honours claimA nobler, than a Conqueror’s, name;—At the red wreaths of guilty fameThy generous soul had blush’d:The blood—the tears the world has shed—The throngs of mourners—piles of dead—The grief—the guilt—are onhishead,The Tyrant thou hast crush’d.
Unconquer’d!yet thy honours claimA nobler, than a Conqueror’s, name;—At the red wreaths of guilty fameThy generous soul had blush’d:The blood—the tears the world has shed—The throngs of mourners—piles of dead—The grief—the guilt—are onhishead,The Tyrant thou hast crush’d.
Unconquer’d!yet thy honours claimA nobler, than a Conqueror’s, name;—At the red wreaths of guilty fameThy generous soul had blush’d:The blood—the tears the world has shed—The throngs of mourners—piles of dead—The grief—the guilt—are onhishead,The Tyrant thou hast crush’d.
Thine was the sword which Justice draws;Thine was the pure and generous cause,Of holy rites and human lawsThe impious thrall to burst;Andthouwast destin’d for thy part!The noblest mind, the firmest heart,Artless—but in the warrior’s art—And in that art, the first.
Thine was the sword which Justice draws;Thine was the pure and generous cause,Of holy rites and human lawsThe impious thrall to burst;Andthouwast destin’d for thy part!The noblest mind, the firmest heart,Artless—but in the warrior’s art—And in that art, the first.
Thine was the sword which Justice draws;Thine was the pure and generous cause,Of holy rites and human lawsThe impious thrall to burst;Andthouwast destin’d for thy part!The noblest mind, the firmest heart,Artless—but in the warrior’s art—And in that art, the first.
AndWE, who in the eastern skiesBeheld thy Sun of glory rise,Still follow, with exulting eyes,His proud Meridian height.Late,—on thy grateful country’s breast,Late, may that Sun descend to rest,Beaming through all the glowing WestThe memory of his light.
AndWE, who in the eastern skiesBeheld thy Sun of glory rise,Still follow, with exulting eyes,His proud Meridian height.Late,—on thy grateful country’s breast,Late, may that Sun descend to rest,Beaming through all the glowing WestThe memory of his light.
AndWE, who in the eastern skiesBeheld thy Sun of glory rise,Still follow, with exulting eyes,His proud Meridian height.Late,—on thy grateful country’s breast,Late, may that Sun descend to rest,Beaming through all the glowing WestThe memory of his light.
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 skiesThat bring the day of ire!Whose impious voice, from his dark caveWakes 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 advanceTo 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 flamesThat burn for glorious deed.For him that lives, the raptur’d eyeOf love shall dance! for those who die,Their ladies’ tears, their country’s sigh,Shall be the sacred meed!
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 skiesThat bring the day of ire!Whose impious voice, from his dark caveWakes 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 advanceTo 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 flamesThat burn for glorious deed.For him that lives, the raptur’d eyeOf love shall dance! for those who die,Their ladies’ tears, their country’s sigh,Shall be the sacred meed!
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 skiesThat bring the day of ire!
Whose impious voice, from his dark caveWakes 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 advanceTo 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 flamesThat burn for glorious deed.For him that lives, the raptur’d eyeOf love shall dance! for those who die,Their ladies’ tears, their country’s sigh,Shall be the sacred meed!
1805.
ThoughI do love my country’s wealAs well as any soul that breathes;Though more than filial pride I feelTo see her crown’d, with conqu’ring wreaths;Yet from my heart do I deploreHer recent triumphs on the main—Those laurels dripping red with gore—That victory bought withNelsonslain.Oh! dearest conquest, heaviest loss,That England’s hope and heart have knownSince first, in fight, her blood-red crossO’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 routThat lights for joy its countless fires,That hails the day with madd’ning shout,WhileHe, who won the day, expires!It was, indeed, a glorious day,—And every homage of the heartWere just, that rescued realms can pay,HadNelsonlived to share his part.HadNelsonlived 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.ButHeis blind to pageant gay,And he is deaf to joyous strain;And I will raise no pleasant lay,And swell no pomp forNelsonslain.But I will commune with my mind,To celebrate its darling ChiefWhat worthiest tribute it may findOf soften’d pride, of temper’d grief.Ye good and great, ’tis yours to raiseThe storied vase, the column tall,Through every future age to praiseHis life, and consecrate his fall:Mine it will be, (oh! would my tongueWere gifted with immortal verse!)To strew, with many a sorrowing song,Parnassian cypress o’er his hearse.
ThoughI do love my country’s wealAs well as any soul that breathes;Though more than filial pride I feelTo see her crown’d, with conqu’ring wreaths;Yet from my heart do I deploreHer recent triumphs on the main—Those laurels dripping red with gore—That victory bought withNelsonslain.Oh! dearest conquest, heaviest loss,That England’s hope and heart have knownSince first, in fight, her blood-red crossO’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 routThat lights for joy its countless fires,That hails the day with madd’ning shout,WhileHe, who won the day, expires!It was, indeed, a glorious day,—And every homage of the heartWere just, that rescued realms can pay,HadNelsonlived to share his part.HadNelsonlived 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.ButHeis blind to pageant gay,And he is deaf to joyous strain;And I will raise no pleasant lay,And swell no pomp forNelsonslain.But I will commune with my mind,To celebrate its darling ChiefWhat worthiest tribute it may findOf soften’d pride, of temper’d grief.Ye good and great, ’tis yours to raiseThe storied vase, the column tall,Through every future age to praiseHis life, and consecrate his fall:Mine it will be, (oh! would my tongueWere gifted with immortal verse!)To strew, with many a sorrowing song,Parnassian cypress o’er his hearse.
ThoughI do love my country’s wealAs well as any soul that breathes;Though more than filial pride I feelTo see her crown’d, with conqu’ring wreaths;
Yet from my heart do I deploreHer recent triumphs on the main—Those laurels dripping red with gore—That victory bought withNelsonslain.
Oh! dearest conquest, heaviest loss,That England’s hope and heart have knownSince first, in fight, her blood-red crossO’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 routThat lights for joy its countless fires,That hails the day with madd’ning shout,WhileHe, who won the day, expires!
It was, indeed, a glorious day,—And every homage of the heartWere just, that rescued realms can pay,HadNelsonlived to share his part.
HadNelsonlived 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.
ButHeis blind to pageant gay,And he is deaf to joyous strain;And I will raise no pleasant lay,And swell no pomp forNelsonslain.
But I will commune with my mind,To celebrate its darling ChiefWhat worthiest tribute it may findOf soften’d pride, of temper’d grief.
Ye good and great, ’tis yours to raiseThe storied vase, the column tall,Through every future age to praiseHis life, and consecrate his fall:
Mine it will be, (oh! would my tongueWere gifted with immortal verse!)To strew, with many a sorrowing song,Parnassian cypress o’er his hearse.
The fight was long;—and deep in bloodBritain’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 prideOf 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!—Nelsonhas 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 acclaimOf England’s honour,Nelson’sfame,What deep and sullen sounds arise?Are these, alas! victorious cries?Bode they a widow’d nation’s woe;The triumph vain, andNelsonlow?—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 eyesNever before revealed, the Hero dies.He dies! but while on Egypt’s strandThe 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 roarsOn Trafalgar’s immortal shores;—While high St. Vincent’s towery steepAnd, giant of the Atlantic deep,Dark Teneriffe, like beacons, guideThe wanderers of the western wave;Sublime shall stand, amid the tideOf baffled Time,—his country’s pride—The sacred memory of the brave;AndNelson’semulated nameShine the proud sea-mark to the ports of Fame!
The fight was long;—and deep in bloodBritain’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 prideOf 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!—Nelsonhas 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 acclaimOf England’s honour,Nelson’sfame,What deep and sullen sounds arise?Are these, alas! victorious cries?Bode they a widow’d nation’s woe;The triumph vain, andNelsonlow?—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 eyesNever before revealed, the Hero dies.He dies! but while on Egypt’s strandThe 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 roarsOn Trafalgar’s immortal shores;—While high St. Vincent’s towery steepAnd, giant of the Atlantic deep,Dark Teneriffe, like beacons, guideThe wanderers of the western wave;Sublime shall stand, amid the tideOf baffled Time,—his country’s pride—The sacred memory of the brave;AndNelson’semulated nameShine the proud sea-mark to the ports of Fame!
The fight was long;—and deep in bloodBritain’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 prideOf 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!—Nelsonhas 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 acclaimOf England’s honour,Nelson’sfame,What deep and sullen sounds arise?Are these, alas! victorious cries?Bode they a widow’d nation’s woe;The triumph vain, andNelsonlow?—
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 eyesNever before revealed, the Hero dies.
He dies! but while on Egypt’s strandThe 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 roarsOn Trafalgar’s immortal shores;—While high St. Vincent’s towery steepAnd, giant of the Atlantic deep,Dark Teneriffe, like beacons, guideThe wanderers of the western wave;Sublime shall stand, amid the tideOf baffled Time,—his country’s pride—The sacred memory of the brave;AndNelson’semulated nameShine the proud sea-mark to the ports of Fame!
1805
’Twasat the close of that dark mornOn which our Hero, conquering, died,That every seaman’s heart was tornBy strife of sorrow and of pride;—Of pride, that one short day would showDeeds 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 direr, sadder was the night;When human rage had ceased the fray,And elements maintain’d the fight.All shaken in the conflict pastThe 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’dThe hard-earn’d prizes of the fightSink, 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’dOn Him, so late their hope and guideBut now a bloody corse and cold,)‘Was it forthis, thatNelsondied?’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 aroseBright 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 braveBreasting the ocean at their ease,Like sea-birds on their native wave:And now they cried, (because they foundOld England’s fleet in all its pride,While Spain’s and France’s hopes were drown’d,)‘ItwasforthisthatNelsondied!’He died, with many an hundred boldAnd honest hearts as ever beat!—But where’s the British heart so coldThat would not die in such a feat?Yes! by their memories! by allThe honours which their tomb surround!Theirs was the noblest, happiest fallWhich ever mortal courage crown’d.Then bear them to their glorious graveWith 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 learnHow to resign its patriot breath;And from a grateful country, earnThe triumphs of a trophied death.
’Twasat the close of that dark mornOn which our Hero, conquering, died,That every seaman’s heart was tornBy strife of sorrow and of pride;—Of pride, that one short day would showDeeds 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 direr, sadder was the night;When human rage had ceased the fray,And elements maintain’d the fight.All shaken in the conflict pastThe 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’dThe hard-earn’d prizes of the fightSink, 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’dOn Him, so late their hope and guideBut now a bloody corse and cold,)‘Was it forthis, thatNelsondied?’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 aroseBright 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 braveBreasting the ocean at their ease,Like sea-birds on their native wave:And now they cried, (because they foundOld England’s fleet in all its pride,While Spain’s and France’s hopes were drown’d,)‘ItwasforthisthatNelsondied!’He died, with many an hundred boldAnd honest hearts as ever beat!—But where’s the British heart so coldThat would not die in such a feat?Yes! by their memories! by allThe honours which their tomb surround!Theirs was the noblest, happiest fallWhich ever mortal courage crown’d.Then bear them to their glorious graveWith 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 learnHow to resign its patriot breath;And from a grateful country, earnThe triumphs of a trophied death.
’Twasat the close of that dark mornOn which our Hero, conquering, died,That every seaman’s heart was tornBy strife of sorrow and of pride;—
Of pride, that one short day would showDeeds 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 direr, sadder was the night;When human rage had ceased the fray,And elements maintain’d the fight.
All shaken in the conflict pastThe 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’dThe hard-earn’d prizes of the fightSink, 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’dOn Him, so late their hope and guideBut now a bloody corse and cold,)‘Was it forthis, thatNelsondied?’
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 aroseBright 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 braveBreasting the ocean at their ease,Like sea-birds on their native wave:
And now they cried, (because they foundOld England’s fleet in all its pride,While Spain’s and France’s hopes were drown’d,)‘ItwasforthisthatNelsondied!’
He died, with many an hundred boldAnd honest hearts as ever beat!—But where’s the British heart so coldThat would not die in such a feat?
Yes! by their memories! by allThe honours which their tomb surround!Theirs was the noblest, happiest fallWhich ever mortal courage crown’d.
Then bear them to their glorious graveWith 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 learnHow to resign its patriot breath;And from a grateful country, earnThe triumphs of a trophied death.
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 timeOr space, but wide to every climeAnd age, his glorious fall bequeathsValour’s sword, and victory’s wreaths.The rude but pious care of yoreHeap’d o’er the brave the mounded shore;And still that mounded shore can tellWhere Hector and Pelides fell.There, over glory’s earthly bed,When many a wasting age had fled,The world’s Great Victor pour’d his pray’rsFor fame, and monuments like theirs.Happy the brave! whose sacred tombItselfaverts the oblivious doom,Bears on its breast unfading bays,And gives eternity of praise!High, then, the monumental pileErect, forNelsonof theNile!OfTrafalgar, andVincent’sheights,ForNelsonof 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 steepWhose base is buried in the deep;But whose bright summit shines afarO’er the blue ocean, like a star.Such let it be, as o’er the bedOf Nilus rears its lonely head;Which never shook at mortal might,TillNelsonlanced the bolts of fight.(What time theOrient, wrapt in fireBlazed, its own seamen’s funeral pyre,And, with explosive fury riven,Sprang thundering to the midnight heaven.)Around it, when the raven nightShades ocean, fire the beacon-light;And let it, thro’ the tempest, flameThe star of safety as of fame.Thither, as o’er the deep belowThe seaman seeks his country’s foe,His emulative eye shall roll,AndNelson’sspirit fill his soul.Thither, shall youthful heroes climb,TheNelsonsof an after-time,And, round that sacred altar, swearSuch glory and such graves to share.Raise then, imperial Britain, raiseThe trophied pillar of his praise;And worthy be its towering pride,Of those that live, ofHIMthat died!Worthy ofNelsonof theNile!OfNelsonof the cloud-capp’d Isle,OfTrafalgarandVincent’sheights,OfNelsonof the hundred fights!
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 timeOr space, but wide to every climeAnd age, his glorious fall bequeathsValour’s sword, and victory’s wreaths.The rude but pious care of yoreHeap’d o’er the brave the mounded shore;And still that mounded shore can tellWhere Hector and Pelides fell.There, over glory’s earthly bed,When many a wasting age had fled,The world’s Great Victor pour’d his pray’rsFor fame, and monuments like theirs.Happy the brave! whose sacred tombItselfaverts the oblivious doom,Bears on its breast unfading bays,And gives eternity of praise!High, then, the monumental pileErect, forNelsonof theNile!OfTrafalgar, andVincent’sheights,ForNelsonof 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 steepWhose base is buried in the deep;But whose bright summit shines afarO’er the blue ocean, like a star.Such let it be, as o’er the bedOf Nilus rears its lonely head;Which never shook at mortal might,TillNelsonlanced the bolts of fight.(What time theOrient, wrapt in fireBlazed, its own seamen’s funeral pyre,And, with explosive fury riven,Sprang thundering to the midnight heaven.)Around it, when the raven nightShades ocean, fire the beacon-light;And let it, thro’ the tempest, flameThe star of safety as of fame.Thither, as o’er the deep belowThe seaman seeks his country’s foe,His emulative eye shall roll,AndNelson’sspirit fill his soul.Thither, shall youthful heroes climb,TheNelsonsof an after-time,And, round that sacred altar, swearSuch glory and such graves to share.Raise then, imperial Britain, raiseThe trophied pillar of his praise;And worthy be its towering pride,Of those that live, ofHIMthat died!Worthy ofNelsonof theNile!OfNelsonof the cloud-capp’d Isle,OfTrafalgarandVincent’sheights,OfNelsonof the hundred fights!
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 timeOr space, but wide to every climeAnd age, his glorious fall bequeathsValour’s sword, and victory’s wreaths.
The rude but pious care of yoreHeap’d o’er the brave the mounded shore;And still that mounded shore can tellWhere Hector and Pelides fell.
There, over glory’s earthly bed,When many a wasting age had fled,The world’s Great Victor pour’d his pray’rsFor fame, and monuments like theirs.
Happy the brave! whose sacred tombItselfaverts the oblivious doom,Bears on its breast unfading bays,And gives eternity of praise!
High, then, the monumental pileErect, forNelsonof theNile!OfTrafalgar, andVincent’sheights,ForNelsonof 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 steepWhose base is buried in the deep;But whose bright summit shines afarO’er the blue ocean, like a star.
Such let it be, as o’er the bedOf Nilus rears its lonely head;Which never shook at mortal might,TillNelsonlanced the bolts of fight.
(What time theOrient, wrapt in fireBlazed, its own seamen’s funeral pyre,And, with explosive fury riven,Sprang thundering to the midnight heaven.)
Around it, when the raven nightShades ocean, fire the beacon-light;And let it, thro’ the tempest, flameThe star of safety as of fame.
Thither, as o’er the deep belowThe seaman seeks his country’s foe,His emulative eye shall roll,AndNelson’sspirit fill his soul.
Thither, shall youthful heroes climb,TheNelsonsof an after-time,And, round that sacred altar, swearSuch glory and such graves to share.
Raise then, imperial Britain, raiseThe trophied pillar of his praise;And worthy be its towering pride,Of those that live, ofHIMthat died!
Worthy ofNelsonof theNile!OfNelsonof the cloud-capp’d Isle,OfTrafalgarandVincent’sheights,OfNelsonof the hundred fights!
1809.
Despair of Spain!—and dostthoudareTo talk, cold plodder, of despair?Dostthoupresume to scanThe 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 scopeNothing 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! bythee?Oh, no; tho’ France’s murderous handShould sweep the desolated land,Revengewill still remain:—Smother’d, but not extinguish’d quite,A spark will live, in time will light,And fire the lengthening train.—Stung by that pang which never dies,Enthusiast millions shall arise,And Europe echo to their cries,Never Despair of Spain!
Despair of Spain!—and dostthoudareTo talk, cold plodder, of despair?Dostthoupresume to scanThe 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 scopeNothing 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! bythee?Oh, no; tho’ France’s murderous handShould sweep the desolated land,Revengewill still remain:—Smother’d, but not extinguish’d quite,A spark will live, in time will light,And fire the lengthening train.—Stung by that pang which never dies,Enthusiast millions shall arise,And Europe echo to their cries,Never Despair of Spain!
Despair of Spain!—and dostthoudareTo talk, cold plodder, of despair?Dostthoupresume to scanThe 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 scopeNothing 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! bythee?
Oh, no; tho’ France’s murderous handShould sweep the desolated land,Revengewill still remain:—Smother’d, but not extinguish’d quite,A spark will live, in time will light,And fire the lengthening train.—Stung by that pang which never dies,Enthusiast millions shall arise,And Europe echo to their cries,
Never Despair of Spain!
StanzaII. line 1.—France’s chosen bands.
The force opposed to the allies comprised some of the élite of the French army.
St. II. l. 2.—He of the borrowed crown.
‘TheborrowedMajesty of England.’Shakspeare, King John.
‘TheborrowedMajesty of England.’Shakspeare, King John.
‘TheborrowedMajesty of England.’Shakspeare, King John.
Joseph (el Rey botilla) was in the field, and of course nominally commanding in chief; but he very prudently placed himself opposite to the Spanish lines, where there was little to do; and, accordingly, we do not hear of him again, till his gasconading proclamations from Saint Olalla,after his retreat.
St. II. l. 5.—Talavera.
Talavera, (called de la Reyna, because it was for some time theappanageof the Queens of Spain,) is one of the mostancient cities of the monarchy. Though situated nearly in the centre of the Peninsula, it has had the peculiar ill fortune of suffering in all ages, and from all parties, the calamities of war. Christians and Moors stormed and plundered it by turns, and not an instance occurs of an hostile force failing before it, till that one which I now attempt to describe. The ramparts were very strong, constructed of immense blocks of free-stone, and flanked, as it is said, with eighteen square towers; but the most ancient ramparts and towers have fallen into a state of dilapidation. The inhabitants themselves, indeed, have been more destructive even than Time, and, to procure stones for the erection of dwelling-houses, ‘have industriously pillaged the dismantled walls, and reduced to an insignificant heap of stones all those stately fragments of majesty and strength, which had so long been preserved in Talavera as venerable monuments of its eventful history[1].’
The gate of the western suburb has been rendered memorable by a flagitious act of cruelty, committed in 1289, at the instigation of Sancho the Brave. On that spot were exposed to view the dissected limbs of 400 nobles of Talavera, who had been put to death for their adherence to the cause of the unfortunate family of La Cerda, against a successful usurper. This action is yet commemorated in the name of Puerto de Quartos. Talavera is now a considerableand opulent city, and must have been very populous even in 1289, since it could furnish 400 noble victims of one party.
St. II. l. 13.—St. James.
St. James, or Saint Jago, is the Patron Saint of Spain. The shrine at Compostella, on the site of which the Apostle’s body was miraculously discovered in 800, became famous throughout Europe, and was for many ages the peculiar object of the liberality of the rich, and of the pilgrimages of the poor of all nations. In the year 1434, no less than 2460 English had license from the King to proceed thither, with considerable sums of money, as well for offerings as for their necessary expenses.
When Almanzor, the Moorish King of Seville, ravaged Gallicia, the divine interposition preserved, by a miraculous storm of lightning, the temple of Compostella from plunder and profanation. Is it too much to hope that the vengeance of Heaven may yet, in our days, visit invaders more rapacious, more cruel, more impious, than the Moors!
St. III. l. 20.—Thrice come they on.
I have taken the liberty of representing the three attacks on General Hill’s position to have been all made about midnight, and in immediate succession, though, in fact, the first occurred late in the evening, the second only at midnight, and the third about day-break on the 28th.
St. IV. l. 2.—Promiscuous death.
It is certain that in the confusion of the night-fight, much loss was occasioned on both parts, by mistaking friends for foes.
St. IV. l. 9.—The Bard’s enthusiast lay.
—— sed omnes illacrimabilesUrguentur ignotique longâNocte, carent quia vate sacro.Hor. Od. 9, lib. 4.
—— sed omnes illacrimabilesUrguentur ignotique longâNocte, carent quia vate sacro.Hor. Od. 9, lib. 4.
—— sed omnes illacrimabilesUrguentur ignotique longâNocte, carent quia vate sacro.Hor. Od. 9, lib. 4.
St. IV. l. 12.—Oh for a blaze.
A young and accomplished lady has discovered, as she fancies, a resemblance between the description of this night-fight, and that of the encounter of Tancred and Clorinda in theGierusalemme Liberata. I am very far from agreeing with my fair critic in this notion, and any of my readers, who shall turn to the fifty-fourth and subsequent stanzas of the twelfth canto of the Jerusalem, will have the satisfaction, (not, I think, of detecting me in a presumptuous and unacknowledged imitation of Tasso,) but of reading one of the most striking passages of that splendid poem.
St. VI. l. 23.—Fifty thousand warriors.
The French acknowledge to have had 45,000 men engaged, and we know that the effective British scarcely, if at all, exceeded 20,000.
⁂ Since these pages were first published, there have appeared in the Moniteur of Sept. 28, 1809, notes on Lord Wellington’s dispatches, which admit the disparity to have been still greater than the most sanguine Englishman had thought—than evenwe romancershad imagined.
They state the army which attacked Lord Wellesley, (as they call him,) to have consisted of the 1st and 4th corps, and the reserve; and their force they allege to have been,—the 1st corps, 36 battalions; the 4th, 30 battalions; and the reserve, 20 battalions, exclusive of the cavalry, which was 40 squadrons. Now these 86 battalions, if complete, would have numbered about 60,000 infantry; and even if buthalfcomplete, would have exceeded Lord Wellington’s force, (which they admit to have been but 20,000) by 10,000 of infantry alone, or, reckoning the cavalry, by 14,000 men. But, in fact, they may be taken at 500 men to each battalion at least, that is, in the whole, at 43,000 infantry, and about 4,000 cavalry. 1810.
It is now known, that the French force consisted of about 50,000 men. 1812.
St. VIII. l. 6.—Cold allies.
The government and generals of Spain, at the period of the battle of Talavera, were more than usually tardy and feeble in all their measures. After the battle, Sir A. Wellesley was disabled from pursuing his advantages, and (whenhe was obliged, by General Cuesta’s extraordinary conduct, to retreat,) his army was almost exhausted, for want of those means of transport which the Spanish authorities had liberally promised him, and which, in fact, they could have furnished in sufficient abundance. While the guns taken at Talavera were in the possession of the English, the Spanish General could not be induced to afford the means of drawing them; but when, on this account, the English were forced to abandon them, the Spaniards easily found cattle for their conveyance. So, when the British army laid down its ammunition for want of means to carry it, the Spaniards found no difficulty in bringing it away for their own use[2]. The correspondence between Sir A. Wellesley, Lord Wellesley, and M. de Garay, in 1809, afford many similar proofs of thecoldnessof the government of our allies; though it is now clear that it did not exist (as Sir J. Moore seems to have supposed) in all classes: the lower orders, and not a few of the higher, have all along exhibited irrefragable proofs of the warmest enthusiasm, and the most patriotic devotion. There have been, and there still are, a great number of persons in Spain, who, to say the best of them, are inclined totemporize; and too many of this class have found means to influence the national operations.—In spite of them, however, the spirit of the people may save their country; and I shall not despair,however ‘Princes and Lords may flourish or may fade,’ of the cause of Spain, till ‘the bold peasantry, its country’s pride,’ shall have passed under the usurper’s yoke.
St. VIII. l. 14.—The agony of fame.
This expression, and another in the last line of the XXVIIth Stanza, are borrowed from a splendid passage of Mr. Burke’s, in which, speaking of Lord Keppel, he says, ‘With what zeal and anxious affection I attended him through his trial,that agony of his glory—with what prodigality Isquanderedmyself in courting almost every sort of enmity for his sake,’ &c.Burke’s Works, v. 8, p. 54.
St. VIII. l. 21.—Factious spite.
The calumniators of Sir Arthur Wellesley have been so industrious in publishing their malignity, that it is unnecessary to recal to the public observation any particular instance of it. In reading their base absurdities, one cannot but recollect the expression of Marshal Villars (I think it was) to Lewis XIV. ‘Sire, je vais combattre vos ennemis, & je vous laisse au milieu des miens.’—Sir Arthur, much worse treated than M. de Villars, says nothing about it, but beats his country’s enemies, and despises his own.
St. XIV. l. 1.—But, tyrant, thou.
With all the reluctance which one must feel to charge withatrocious crimes, a man whose talents (not always ill employed) have raised him to the highest station and power that any human being ever attained, it is yet impossible to think of his cruel and unprovoked attack on the Spanish crown and people without indignation—without feeling, that Divine Justice must charge to his account, all the ruin by fire, famine, and the sword, which his unparalleled injustice has visited upon that unhappy country.
St. XIV. l. 23.—The murder’d heir of Bourbon.
The seizing the Duke D’Enghien in a neutral state, dragging him to a tribunal to which he was, in no view, amenable, condemning him by laws to which he owed no obedience, and finally, putting him to death by a hasty and cowardly execution bytorch-light, are stains on Buonaparte’s character, of such violence, injustice, and cruelty, as no good fortune, no talents, no splendour of power, or even of merit, can ever obliterate.
St. XV. l. 7.—Self inflicted pang.