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 storm'd, and twice fell back, Before the bayonet driven. Again at morn They made their fiery onset, and again Repell'd, again at noon renew'd the strife. Yet was their desperate perseverance vain, Where skill by equal skill was countervail'd And numbers by superior courage foil'd; 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 suffered'st 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, Press'd forward, thinking the devoted realm Full sure should fall a prey. He in his pride Scorn'd 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 display'd,
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, whereso'er he walk
Henceforth may find his teachers.
The Frenchmen's bones in glen and grove, on rock And height, where'er the wolves and carrion birds Have strewn them, wash'din torrents, bare and bleach'd By sun and rain and by the winds of heaven.
FOR THE LINES OF TORKES 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 attain'd By intellect, and patience to the end
Holding through good and ill its course assign'd, 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 enterprize did he abate,
Or gallant purpose: witness the proud day Which saw Soult's murderous host from Porto driven
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. But when Spain's feeble counsels, in delay As erring, as in action premature, Had left him in the field without support, And Buonaparte having trampled down
The strength and pride of Austria, this way turn'd His single thought and undivided power, Retreating hither the great General came; And proud Massena, when the boastful chief Of plundered Lisbon dreamt, here found himself Stopt suddenly in his presumptuous course. From Ericeyra on the western sea,
By Mafra's princely convent, and the heights Of Montichique, and Bucellas famed For generous vines, the formidable works Extending, rested on the guarded shores Of Tagus, that rich river who received Into his ample and rejoicing port,
The harvests and the wealth of distant lands, Secure, insulting with the glad display
The robber's greedy sight. Five months the foe Beheld these lines, made inexpugnable
By perfect skill, and patriot feelings here With discipline conjoin'd, courageous hands, True spirits, and one comprehensive mind All overseeing and pervading all.
Five months, tormenting still his heart with hope, He saw his projects frustrated; the power Of the blaspheming tyrant whom he served Fail in the proof; his thousands disappear, In silent and inglorious war consumed ; Till hence retreating, madden'd with despite, Here did the self-styled Son of Victory leave, Never to be redeem'd, that vaunted name.
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