IV

The meteor flag of England

Shall yet terrific burn;

Till danger's troubled night depart
And the star of peace return.
Then, then, ye ocean-warriors!
Our song and feast shall flow
To the fame of your name,

When the storm has ceased to blow;
When the fiery fight is heard no more,
And the storm has ceased to blow.

AT CORUÑA

ROBERT SOUTHEY

THE nations of Europe had one by one yielded to Napoleon until his conquest of the Continent seemed as complete as England's control of the sea. The first opportunity to meet the great antagonist on land came when (1808) the Spanish people rose in revolt against his tyranny. An English army, under Sir Arthur Wellesley, later Duke of Wellington, was immediately sent to their aid. The French were driven from Portugal, but the attempt to shake their hold on Spain was at first unsuccessful. Sir John Moore, with an army of twenty thousand men, advanced to Salamanca, but learning that Napoleon was marching to meet him with a force twice his own, the English commander beat a hasty retreat to Coruña. Here he expected to find transports to convey his shattered troops back to England. The vessels were late, however, and Moore found himself obliged to fight (January 6, 1809). The French were beaten off at every point, but in the moment of victory, Sir John fell, mortally wounded. The English were embarked the same night.

When from these shores the British army first
Boldly advanced into the heart of Spain,

The admiring people who beheld its march
Call'd it "the Beautiful." And surely well
Its proud array, its perfect discipline,
Its ample furniture of war complete,

Its powerful horse, its men of British mould,
All high in heart and hope, all of themselves
Assured, and in their leaders confident,
Deserved the title. Few short weeks elapsed
Ere hither that disastrous host return'd,
A fourth of all its gallant force consumed
In hasty and precipitate retreat,

Stores, treasure and artillery, in the wreck
Left to the fierce pursuer, horse and man
Founder'd, and stiffening on the mountain snows.
But when the exulting enemy approach'd
Boasting that he would drive into the sea
The remnant of the wretched fugitives,

Here ere they reach'd their ships, they turn'd at bay.
Then was the proof of British courage seen;
Against a foe far overnumbering them,
An insolent foe, rejoicing in pursuit,
Sure of the fruit of victory, whatsoe'er
Might be the fate of battle, here they stood
And their safe embarkation - all they sought,
Won manfully. That mournful day avenged
Their sufferings, and redeem'd their country's name;
And thus Coruña, which in this retreat

Had seen the else indelible reproach

Of England, saw the stain effaced in blood.

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE

CHARLES WOLFE

MOORE was buried at Coruña in the garden of San Carlos. A monument was erected on the spot in 1814.

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,

As his corpse to the ramparts we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning;
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said,

And we spoke not a word of sorrow;

But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought as we hollowed his narrow bed

And smoothed down his lonely pillow,

That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,

And we far away on the billow!

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,-
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our heavy task was done

When the clock struck the hour for retiring: And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone, But we left him alone with his glory.

GEORGE III

(November, 1813)

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

THE long reign of George III. came to an end in 1820. Years before his death the king was afflicted with fits of madness. By 1811, his mind was so far gone that he was unfit to attend to affairs of state, and the Prince of Wales was appointed Regent. The year 1813 was one of splendid victories. Wellington inflicted overwhelming defeat on Joseph Bonaparte at Vittoria and on Marshal Soult at the battle of the Pyrenees. The frontier towns of San Sebastian and Pamplona fell into his hands, and the French were finally driven out of Spain. The English armies were now free to combat Napoleon on French soil.

Now that all hearts are glad, all faces bright,
Our aged Sovereign sits to the ebb and flow
Of states and kingdoms, to their joy or woe,
Insensible; he sits deprived of sight,

And lamentably wrapped in twofold night,

Whom no weak hopes deceived; whose mind ensued,

Through perilous war, with regal fortitude,

Peace that should claim respect from lawless might.

Dread King of kings, vouchsafe a ray divine

To his forlorn condition! let thy grace
Upon his inner soul in mercy shine;

Permit his heart to kindle, and to embrace
(Though were it only for a moment's space)
The triumphs of this hour; for they are THINE!

THE EVE OF WATERLOO

LORD BYRON

(Selected Stanzas from "Childe Harold's Pilgrimage," Canto III)

THE final contest with Napoleon was fought out at Waterloo. There the allied nations of Europe brought their forces against the emperor. Wellington and the English army lay at Brussels, expecting the approach of the French, but unaware that Napoleon had come within fighting distance. Early in the morning of June 15, 1814, the attack on the Prussian encampment at Charleroi opened the great battle of four days' duration that crushed for all time the power of Napoleon. There was a sound of revelry by night, And Belgium's capital had gather'd then Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and bright

The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men; A thousand hearts beat happily; and when

Music arose with its voluptuous swell,

Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake again, And all went merry as a marriage bell;

But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising

knell!