This point by her superior cavalry

France from the Spaniard won, the elements
Aiding her powerful efforts; here awhile.

She seemed to rule the conflict; and from hence
The British and the Lusitanian arm

Dislodged with irresistible assault

The enemy, even when he deemed the day
Was written for his own. But not for Soult,
But not for France, was that day in the rolls
Of war to be inscribed by Victory's hand,
Not for the inhuman chief, and cause unjust;
She wrote for after-times, in blood, the names
Of Spain and England, Blake and Beresford.

XXXII.

TO THE MEMORY OF SIR WILLIAM

MYERS.

SPANIARD or Portuguese! tread reverently
Upon a soldier's grave: no common heart
Lies mingled with the clod beneath thy feet.
To honors and to ample wealth was Myers
In England born; but leaving friends beloved,
And all allurements of that happy land,

His ardent spirit to the field of war
Impelled him.

Fair was his career.

He faced

The perils of that memorable day,

When, through the iron shower and fiery storm
Of death, the dauntless host of Britain made
Their landing at Aboukir; then not less
Illustrated, than when great Nelson's hand,
As if insulted Heaven with its own wrath
Had armed him, smote the miscreant Frenchmen's
fleet,

And with its wreck, wide floating many a league,
Strewed the rejoicing shores. What then his youth
Held forth of promise, amply was confirmed
When Wellesley, upon Talavera's plain,
On the mock monarch won his coronet :

There, when the trophies of the field were heaped,
Was he for gallant bearing eminent,

When all did bravely. But his valor's orb
Shone brightest at its setting. On the field
Of Albuhera he the fusileers

Led to regain the heights, and promised them
A glorious day: a glorious day was given;
The heights were gained, the victory was achieved,
And Myers received from death his deathless crown.
Here to Valverde was he borne, and here
His faithful men, amid this olive grove,
The olive emblem here of endless peace,
Laid him to rest. Spaniard or Portuguese,
In your good cause the British soldier fell:
Tread reverently upon his honored grave.

XXXIII.

EPITAPH.

STEEP is the soldier's path; nor are the heights Of glory to be won without long toil

And arduous efforts of enduring hope,

Save when Death takes the aspirant by the hand,
And, cutting short the work of years, at once
Lifts him to that conspicuous eminence.

Such fate was mine. The standard of the Buffs
I bore at Albuhera, on that day

When, covered by a shower, and fatally

For friends misdeemed, the Polish lancers fell Upon our rear. Surrounding me, they claimed My precious charge. "Not but with life!" I cried,

And life was given for immortality.

The flag which to my heart I held, when wet
With that heart's blood, was soon victoriously
Regained on that great day. In former times,
Marlborough beheld it borne at Ramilies;
For Brunswick and for liberty it waved
Triumphant at Culloden; and hath seen
The lilies on the Caribbean shores
Abashed before it. Then, too, in the front
Of battle did it flap exultingly,

When Douro, with its wide stream interposed,
Saved not the French invaders from attack,
Discomfiture, and ignominious rout.

My name is Thomas: undisgraced have I
Transmitted it. He who in days to come
May bear the honored banner to the field,
Will think of Albuhera, and of me.

XXXIV.

FOR THE WALLS OF CIUDAD RODRIGO.

HERE Craufurd fell, victorious, in the breach,
Leading his countrymen in that assault

Which won from haughty France these rescued

walls;

And here entombed, far from his native land

And kindred dust, his honored relics rest.

Well was he versed in war, in the Orient trained
Beneath Cornwallis; then, for many a year,
Following through arduous and ill-fated fields
The Austrian banners; on the sea-like shores
Of Plata next, still by malignant stars
Pursued; and in that miserable retreat,
For which Coruña witnessed on her hills

The pledge of vengeance given. At length he saw,
Long wooed and well deserved, the brighter face
Of Fortune, upon Coa's banks vouchsafed,
Before Almeida, when Massena found
The fourfold vantage of his numbers foiled,
Before the Briton and the Portugal,

There vindicating first his old renown,

And Craufurd's mind that day presiding there.
Again was her auspicious countenance
Upon Busaco's holy heights revealed;
And when by Torres Vedras, Wellington,
Wisely secure, defied the boastful French,

With all their power; and when Onoro's springs
Beheld that execrable enemy

Again chastised beneath the avenging arm.
Too early here his honorable course
He closed, and won his noble sepulchre.
Where should the soldier rest so worthily
As where he fell? Be thou his monument,
O City of Rodrigo! yea, be thou,
To latest time, his trophy and his tomb!
Sultans, or Pharaohs of the elder world,
Lie not in Mosque or Pyramid enshrined
Thus gloriously, nor in so proud a grave.

XXXV.

TO THE MEMORY OF MAJOR-GENERAL MACKINNON.

SON of an old and honorable house,
Henry Mackinnon from the Hebrides
Drew his descent; but upon English ground
An English mother bore him. Dauphiny
Beheld the blossom of his opening years;