Thy will be done on earth, the victory Accomplished over Sin as well as Death, And the great scheme of Providence fulfilled.
FOR THE BANKS OF THE DOURO.
CROSSING, in unexampled enterprise,
This great and perilous stream, the English host Effected here their landing, on the day
When Soult from Porto with his troops was driven.
No sight so joyful ever had been seen
From Douro's banks,—not when the mountains sent Their generous produce down, or homeward fleets Entered from distant seas their port desired; Nor e'er were shouts of such glad mariners So gladly heard, as then the cannon's peal, And short, sharp strokes of frequent musketry, By the delivered habitants that hour.
For they who, beaten then and routed, fled Before victorious England, in their day
Of triumph, had, like fiends let loose from hell, Filled yon devoted city with all forms
Of horror, all unutterable crimes;
And vengeance now had reached the inhuman race Accurst. Oh, what a scene did Night behold Within those rescued walls, when festal fires
And torches, blazing through the bloody streets,
Streamed their broad light where horse and man in
Unieeded lay outstretched! Eyes, which had wept In bitterness so long, shed tears of joy,
And from the broken heart thanksgiving mixed With anguish rose to Heaven. Sir Arthur then Might feel how precious in a righteous cause Is victory, how divine the soldier's meed When grateful nations bless the avenging sword!
Yox wide-extended town, whose roofs and towers And poplar avenues are seen far off, In goodly prospect over scattered woods
Of dusky ilex, boasts among its sons
Of Mariana's name,
The splendid story of his country's wars Through all the European kingdoms known. Yet in his ample annals thou canst find No braver battle chronicled than here
Was waged, when Joseph, of the stolen crown, Against the hosts of England and of Spain His veteran armies brought. By veteran chiefs Captained, a formidable force they came, Full fifty thousand. Victor led them on,
A man grown gray in arms, nor e'er in aught Dishonored, till by this opprobrious cause. He, over rude Alverche's summer stream Winning his way, made first upon the right His hot attack, where Spain's raw levies, ranged In double line, had taken their strong stand In yonder broken ground, by olive groves Covered, and flanked by Tagus. Soon from thence, As one whose practised eye could apprehend All vantages in war, his troops he drew; And on this hill, the battle's vital point, Bore with collected power, outnumbering
The British ranks twice told. Such fearful odds Were balanced by Sir Arthur's master mind And by the British heart. Twice during night The fatal spot they stormed, and twice fell back, Before the bayonet driven. Again at morn They made their fiery onset, and, again Repelled, again at noon renewed the strife. Yet was their desperate perseverance vain, Where skill by equal skill was countervailed, And numbers by superior courage foiled; And, when the second night drew over them Its sheltering cope, in darkness they retired, At all points beaten. Long in the red page Of war shall Talavera's famous name Stand forth. conspicuous. While that name endures. Bear in thy soul, O Spain! the memory Of all thou sufferedst from perfidious France, Of all that England in thy cause achieved.
FOR THE DESERTO DE BUSACO.
READER! thou standest upon holy ground, Which Penitence hath chosen for itself, And war, disturbing the deep solitude, Hath left it doubly sacred. On these heights The host of Portugal and England stood, Arrayed against Massena, when the chief, Proud of Rodrigoo and Almeida won, Pressed forward, thinking the devoted realm Full sure should fall a prey. He in his pride Scorned the poor numbers of the English foe, And thought the children of the land would fly From his advance, like sheep before the wolf, Scattering, and lost in terror. Ill he knew The Lusitanian spirit! Ill he knew
The arm, the heart, of England! Ill he knew Her Wellington! He learnt to know them here, That spirit and that arm, that heart, that mind, Here on Busaco gloriously displayed,
When, hence repulsed, the beaten boaster wound Below his course circuitous, and left
His thousands for the beasts and ravenous fowl. The Carmelite who in his cell recluse
Was wont to sit, and from a skull receive Death's silent lesson, wheresoe'er he walk, Henceforth may find his teachers. He shall find The Frenchmen's bones in glen and grove, on rock *
And height, where'er the wolves and carrion birds Have strewn them, washed in torrents, bare and bleached
By sun and rain, and by the winds of heaven.
FOR THE LINES OF TORRES VEDRAS.
THROUGH all Iberia, from the Atlantic shores To far Pyrene, Wellington hath left His trophies; but no monument records To after-time a more enduring praise
Than this which marks his triumph here attained By intellect, and patience to the end
Holding through good and ill its course assigned, The stamp and seal of greatness. Here the chief Perceived in foresight Lisbon's sure defence, A vantage-ground for all reverse prepared, Where Portugal and England might defy All strength of hostile numbers. Not for this Of hostile enterprise did he abate,
Or gallant purpose: witness the proud day
Which saw Soult's murderous host from Porto
Bear witness, Talavera, made by him.
Famous for ever; and that later fight When from Busaco's solitude the birds, Then first affrighted in their sanctuary, Fled from the thunders and the fires of war.
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