What muse of fire shall dare that path to trace, | There rests each panting foe upon his lauce,
And sing the splendours of the victor's race?
How each presumptuous obstacle he spurned,
And high Rodrigo's ducal honours earned?
How Badajoz in vain his arms withstood,
And bloodily defended, fell in blood;
What wreaths on Salamanca's plain he won,
From daring France and her determined Son?
Her columns moved magnificently bright,
Firm and compacted as the rocky height :-
Now crushed, dispersed, afar the wrecks are
borne,
Beyond is spread the sacred soil of France ;-
-"On, Soldiers, on! the Gallic land's in view;
The glorious deeds of other days renew;
Bid Agincourt and Cressy live again,
Revenge for England, Portugal and Spain !"-
Light as the sportive kids that spring to crop
The tempting verdure of the mountain's top,
Our warriors scale each height, secure each
pass,
And brave the terrors of each frowning mass.
Chased to their native holds the robbers turn,
Like those majestic rocks by sudden earth- With desperation's fire their bosoms burn
What joyful crowds upon the hero wait,
When glad Madrid had oped her royal gate,
And the vain shadow of a King was flown
Far from her blood-stained and degraded throne.
Fiercely they rush on their undaunted foe,
Who holds his progress steadily and slow.
Down many a lofty mountain's verdant side
Streams with unsparing gush the life-warm
tide;
The rocks reverberate in sullen tone,
Our Wellesley's matchless triumphs have sub- The roar of cannon, and the dying groan,
Envy, Mistrust, and base Ingratitude :—
Iberia proffers to his saving hand
Her power unfettered, and supreme command.
The clouds of dark Suspicion roll away,
And Freedom cheers her with its dawning ray.
The Chieftain springs his flaming sword to
wield
In dreadful vengeance on Vitoria's field;
That fiery combat and exulting chace,
That sealed the weak Usurper's last disgrace.
Now cease, ye warriors, view your perils past,
The glorious consummation hail at last:
Tejo had swelled th' avenger's step to greet,
And bade his billows gambol at your feet;
Douro had heaved his rushing tide in vain
To clear his groaning borders of the slain,
When first upon his wave your banners rose,
And shone above your hecatombs of foes;-
Once more his stream was destined to convey
The venturous bands that smoothed the rugged
way.
Ebro had mourned by Saragossa's wall,
Awful in triumph, glorious in her fall!
Deep in the caverns of his oozy bed,
Oblivion's mantle wrapped the mingled dead;
The hostile step profaned his flowery shore,
Bathed with unsparing tides of patriot gore,
Till his glad stream beheld your conquering
And murmured sounds of triumphs from its
While hand to hand their rage-strung nerves
To check the advancing force-but strive in vain.
Shades of the valiant dead, arise! advance!
Once more the red cross flag waves o'er the
fields of France !
And chiefly thou from yonder sea-beat shore,
Heroic martyr, loved lamented Moore?
Come and rejoice in thine and Scotia's fame.
Behold her Stewart, Ramsay,‡ Hope,§ and
Græme.||
Stewart, the high-souled son of chivalry,
With heart of fire, and valour-beaming eye;
Gentle in peace, as terrible in war,
And decked with many a deep and glorious scar.
Ramsay whose veins boast that unsullied tide,
That gushed with patriot zeal by Wallace' side;
In whose unshrinking soul, and tranquil mind,
The eagle and the dove are gracefully com-
bined.
"Sacred soil of France !"-It was the custom of the French to call it so, in their days of conquest and unbounded arrogance; they vaunted their country secure from the possibility of invasion. And the soldiers of the Allied Army, as in their career of victory they trod upon the "Soil of France," could not always refrain from ironically applying to it the enemy's own epithet, which they had wrested from him the pretension to use any longer.
The Honourable Sir William Stewart; who commanded the Second Division of Infantry.
The Earl of Dalhousie; who commanded the sev
Yes, all are passed:-broke is the Despot's enth Division of Infantry.
And Portugal is free-enfranchised Spain!
Why pause ye not? why turn your eager eyes
Where yonder Pyrenean heights arise?
The Earl of Hopetoun; who commanded the Left Corps of the Army in 1813 and 14, after the departure of Lord Lynedock to command the forces in Flanders. Lord Lynedock; who commanded at Cadiz in 1810, at the Battle of Barrosa in 1811; and the Left Corps of the Army in 1812 and 13.
And Hope, thy faithful Hope, whose manly There enterprising Hill and active Cole,*
Streamed in deep anguish on thy bloody bier,
Who hung the trophy of undying fame,
With friendship's pious hand around thy name,
Then grasped the sword, and bade thy shade
arise,
To revel in the promised sacrifice.
Bold Picton,† Altent of impetuous soul,
Clinton, and many a chief of dauntless eye,
The least a star in glory's galaxy,
Curb the hot steed, and poise the burnished
brand,
While proudly marshals each his warrior band.
Just vengeance whets the Lusian soldiers' sword,
Græme too-Sebastian's crumbling walls pro- Led by their loved, their valiant Beresford :||
The far subduing prowess of the Græme;
The chief whom Cadiz saw renowned in fight,
Whose course has been like Phoebus' race of
light ;-
(By Erin sent to bless another soil,
A native lion formed to martial toil,)
His careful hand through many a weary day,
Trained and prepared them for the future fray.
Lo! the bright trophy on that warlike shield!
From clouds and mists the shining beam was Thine, Beresford, was Albuera's field:
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There hung the phalanx terrible and bright,
A threatening torrent on the mountain's height,
Prepared to rend with desolating sweep,
A thundering pathway down the dizzy steep.
All-conquering Wellington! what joy was thine
As gleamed thy glance along that kindling line;
Swelled not thy heart with retrospective pride
To trace their giant course from Tejo's side,
And view thy triumphs, where the hydra foes
In hot succession on thy path arose?
The force of nature, and the wiles of art,
Combined in vain to daunt that steadfast heart;
The conquest-nurtured warriors of the Gaul,
The steel-fenced turret and embattled wall,
The guarded pass, the rapid stream's extent,
Alike to thy controlling genius bent.
Even the dark passions of the human breast
Bow to thy mandate and subside to rest:
Behold the proud unbending sons of Spain
With pleased obedience follow in thy train,
With transport greet thy step approaching near,
And the exulting" Viva" on thine ear;
While the sure hope of deathless victory
Throbs in each British pulse and lightens in the
There gallant Pakenham* oft in danger tried,
The sword and pen with equal zeal supplied,
While in his breast with emulation strove
A hero's ardour and a brother's love.
* The Honourable Sir Edward Pakenham, Deputy Adjutant General of the Army in the earlier Campaigns of the Peninsular War;-Adjutant General of it in those of 1813 and 14; and who frequently commanded a Division of Infantry, as at the Battle of Salamanca, &c. He was brother to the Duchess of Wellington.
Down to posterity's remotest line,
The glories of that awful day shall shine.
Though Death appeared clad in his wildest form,
Though all his spirits rode upon the storm,
Though thunder answered to thy cannon's roar,
Mixed with war's crimson tide though torrents
Supporting pillar of the Lusian race.
Thy steps they followed through admiring
Spain,
And stamped their might in many a crimson
stain;
Till the bright blade thou taught'st their arm to
wield,
Now gleams terrific o'er the Gallic field.
D'Urban is there, with Hardinge** at his side,
In patient skill and daring deed allied;
They watched the flame, and fanned it in its
rise,
Prompt to arrange, direct, and organize,
Till all-matured, and plunging in the fight,
The harvest of their toil they reaped in stern
delight.
*The Honourable Sir Galbraeth Lowrey Cole; who commanded the fourth Division of Infantry.
† Sir Thomas Picton; who commanded the third Division of Infantry.
Count Charles Alten; who commanded the Light Division of Infantry.
Sir Henry Clinton; who commanded the sixth Division of Infantry.
Field Marshal Lord Beresford, Commander in Chief of the Portuguese Forces; who commanded the Allied Army at the Battle of Albuera, and the Centre Column of the Army in the Campaigns of 1813 and 14. Sir Benjamin D'Urban; Quarter Master General of the Portuguese forces.
** Sir Henry Hardinge; Deputy Quarter Master General of the Portuguese forces.
St. Marcial's towering hills shall long retain
The record bright of renovated Spain;
Cheered by the smile of Wellington she stood,
Firm as the rocky tenant of the flood,
While labouring up the mount her ancient foe,
Rose in dark numbers from the plain below;
Then with impetuous and o'erwhelming sweep
She charged the routed phalanx down the
steep;
Nor ceased the keen pursuit till in the wave
Each foe had found a refuge or a grave.—
Proud Roncesvalles! famed in martial song,
Thy trembling caves were destined to prolong
The bugle blast of a more fatal horn
Than that " on Fontarabian echoes borne."
From thy tall heights how beauteous was the
scene!
Here the rich vineyard bends its graceful screen,
There lofty trees and flowery shrubs are spread,
And the white mansion lifts its stately head,
The frequent streamlets yet uncrimsoned glide,
And murmur to the peaceful bowers beside;
While from his rural cot the harmless swain
Eyes the rich promise of the golden grain,
Yet trembles at the living thunder cloud
Whose awful folds the mountains' summit
shroud,
Where Britain's meteor standard gleams afar,
Like the portent of some red blazing star;-
And nearer it approaches, while on high
Ascend the shout and martial minstrelsy;
Yes, England's heroes to the charge advance,—
Woe to the tyrant! woe to faithless France!
She views her close-wedged columns wide and
deep,
Expand like gathered clouds with fearful sweep,
Still destined like their sires of other times,
By righteous heaven to scourge proud Gallia's
crimes.
She sees the sabre flashing to the ray,
Hears the fierce war-horse breathe th' impatient
neigh;
Already does she feel her trembling plains
Shrink from the pressure of the ponderous wains,
Whose iron tubes unsparingly shall pour
On the Destroyer's head, destruction's shower;
Wider and fiercer rolls th' invading flood;
The thirsty soil absorbs her bravest blood-
Long shall her peasants shudder o'er the tale
That tells the sanguine glories of Nivelle,
Whose many a vine-clad hill and proud chateau
Resounded back the thunder of the foe.
-Marshal of France! still dost thou idly dream To cope with him-the Chief of Douro's stream? Bold is thy heart, and able is thy hand,Combine thy powers, and charge the British
Charge home upon their left-there Hope shall greet
Thy fierce approaches with a welcome meet
What! canst thou not dislodge that little force,
Nor check one moment their determin'd course?
Then summon all thy enterprize and skill,
There, on the right, is well-remembered Hill—
Rush with o'erwhelming force, and bid the Nive
The mangled bodies of thy foes receive :-
Vain is thy utmost rage! as well thy might
Shall hurl upon the vale yon mountain's height;
Repulsed, defeated, to thy holds retire,
In long accustomed pangs of unavailing ire !—
What angry river heaves his billows high,
And roars defiance as he thunders by ?
Ardour in vain those swelling waves shall rear,
The Lords of Ocean in their might appear!
Awed by the potent sceptre of the main,
The furious tides their raging course restrain,
While wonderous skill and force uniting bore
The bold invaders to the farthest shore.
Then winding Pau upon her banks might trace
The transient struggle and continued chace,
While Beresford, Hill, Stewart, Alten, Cole,
Picton, and Clinton, like a deluge roll.-
Again the Gaul, in obstinate despair,
Pauses and hovers on the heights of Aire ;-
But ill may Soult brave Stewart's arm sustain,
That checked his pride on Albuera's plain,
And hurls with practised might the withering
bolt amain.
Another stream appears in sparkling pride, Where mingled fleets of various nations ride; Garonne-O source and promise of repose! Europe shall rest from her unnumbered woesCrown of their toils, reward of every pain, Blest proof our heroes had not fought in vain; What throbs of joy each gallant heart confessed, What tenfold transport thrilled each patriot breast,
When o'er the dancing billows of Garonne High waved the milk-white standard of Bourbon.
O ye, the instruments of God's high will,
The fate of nations destined to fulfil,
The scourge of tyrants, succour of the weak!
In vain the feeble muse your deeds would speak;
O'er many a hard-won triumph she has passed
Untold, but not unfelt:-whose fame shall last,
When the weak hand that dares this sketch
For ages shall have join'd its native clay; Rest, and exult in your unnumbered spoils, And view the golden harvest of your toils.
When confidence and peace were given again To the glad vales of Portugal and Spain,
The bright example of your martial fire
Bade Liberty's rekindling flame aspire ;
The Hollander, too long enduring, broke,
With one indignant burst, the galling yoke.
The Northern Eagles learned their might to
know,
And soared terrific o'er the shrinking foe.
The Russian came-in one imperial hand
Stern Justice bade him wave the vengeful
brand;
While, far removed, to fond affection's eyes,
By fancy's power each grass-clad sod shall rise:
The childless mother dwell upon the theme,
The widow see it in her broken dream;
Oft from her restless couch convulsive start,
And snatch her sleeping infant to her heart,
Prepared to bend before that visioned grave,
For ever closed upon the fond and brave;
To wander o'er the ne'er-forgotten plain,
And seek for one among ten thousand slain.
The vision flies-she sinks, but not to sleep,
Her only luxury to think and weep.
Peace in the other placed her verdant palm,
And mercy steeped it in her holy balm.
Austria's bright numbers gleamed along the Still on each spot the sacred laurels bloom,
And cypress sheds its melancholy gloom;
The laurel flourishes luxuriant there,
And lifts its whitening foliage to the air;
Sweet plant! so gracefully thou had'st not stood,
But thou wert nurtured with those heroes' blood.
And swelled to awful force the threatening train.
The soil of Frederic, worthy of his sway,
Where half-restrained, indignant valour lay,
Now heard the signal, and with rushing pride
Poured thundering forth her bold and eager tide;
What foe so brave but owned the throb of dread
When Prussia followed where her Blucher led?
That wonderous chief upon whose veteran browO
The honours of his northen winter flow-
A fearful winter, terrible in form,
Ye living brave, whose hearts with rapture burn,
Britannia's pride to her glad arms return:
haste to greet the soil for ever free,
And say
"We conquered, toiled, and bled for
thee."-
Whose hand the "whirlwind drives and hurls What eager crowds will throng with fond acthe storm."
The hardy Swede with glowing bosom came,
To share the field of danger and of fame.—
In one dread mass, for one high deed combined
They march, avengers of the human kind,
Astonished France the wonderous vision viewed,
Her barriers forced, her bravest sons subdued;
An instant sees the mighty havoc cease,
The shore re-echoing to each well known name!
O Albion! ever blessed be thy sod:-
"Blessed is the land that calls the Lord her
God."
Not unto thee, fair Island, not to thee
The praise, the honour and the glory be;
And hears the victor's question War, or But to the Lord thy God, thy saving light, Peace?
"Twixt trembling hope, dark fear, and cold mis
Who filled thy heart with faith, thine arm with might;
"Twas He that raised the tyrant of the hour, She faltered,-Heaven in thunder cried "Be To scourge the nations and exalt His power,
The awful voice is heard-the struggle o'er-
One moment passed-Oppression was no more!
But where are they, Britannia's victor crew?
Rest they the triumphs of their hand to view?
Alas! unconscious of the glad result,
In one last, fruitless victory they exult;
And bitterest tears the drooping laurel stain,-
Those gallant hearts for once have bled in vain.
Weep on-how soothing are the tears that flow,
When grateful nations press to share our woe!
-O who can speak the numbers of the slain,
To rich Toulouse from Cadiz' distant plain?
Nameless and low, their warrior graves abound,
Where their free life-blood fertilized the ground:
There rescued lands upon their deeds shall
dwell,
And tale and song their high achievements tell;
There on his cloud each warrior's ghost shall sail,
And murmur notes of triumph in the gale,
While thou wert made the instrument of good,
To close th' allotted day of rage and blood.
We must not raise our grateful hymns to thee,
For ""Twas the Lord who triumphed gloriously."
If thou hast stood when Death his flag unfurled.
Firm as the steadfast centre of the world;
If thou hast sent thy naval sons to ride
Acknowledged sovereigns of the ocean tide;
If thy unconquered troops have strode afar,
Lords of the fight, and masters of the war;
If thou hast found thine own unaided land
Supply with endless means thy liberal hand;
If Freedom on thy shore is throned so high,
That slavery can but touch the strand, and
O bend Britannia to the Lord of Heaven,
Whose High Right Hand these glorious gifts
And bid thy oft-assembled thousands raise
The swelling note of Joy, the choral hymn of
Praise.
HARK! to the distant Convent Bell,
That rolls its deep and solemn knell
Upon the passing breeze :
The choral strain has died away,
And the last taper's glimmering ray
Has faded from the trees.
Again the silver moon-beams rest
Unbroken on the mountain's breast
That rises in majestic grace,
And nought beneath the midnight beam
Is heard, save yonder winding stream,
That murmurs at its base.
It is not long since this lone glen
Rang to the tread of armed men.
Britons they were, whose blood had dyed
The Douro's rushing wave,
When many a crest of martial pride
Found by that gloomy torrent's side
A low and silent grave.
The Conqueror had drawn his train
Back tow'rd Abrantes height,
From thence to succour trembling Spain,
With his collected might.
This was a little wounded band,
Who left beneath Oporto's towers, Had risen with renovated powers, And longed to grasp the vengeful brand, And by their peerless Wellesley led, Wreak Europe's wrongs on Gallia's head.
Their Chief was one whom glory's call
Had tempted from his father's hall,
In manhood's early prime;
He left his Erin's emerald Isle,
The charms of home, and beauty's smile,
The steeps of fame to climb;
And well his warlike deeds might grace
The glories of his ancient race.
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