sons, victorious to the gale,
And drove at last the spoilers to their shore?
Red gleam’d the cross, and waned the crescent pale,
395
While Afric’s echoes thrill’d with Moorish matrons’ wail.
XXXVI
Teems not each ditty with the glorious tale?
Ah! such, alas! the hero’s amplest fate!
When granite moulders and when records fail
A peasant’s plaint prolongs his dubious date.
400
Pride! bend thine eye from heaven to thine estate,
See how the Mighty shrink into a song!
Can Volume, Pillar, Pile, preserve thee great?
Or must thou trust Tradition’s simple tongue,
When Flattery sleeps with thee, and History does thee wrong?
XXXVII
405
Awake, ye sons of Spain! awake! advance!
Lo! Chivalry, your ancient goddess, cries;
But wields not, as of old, her thirsty lance,
Nor shakes her crimson plumage in the skies:
Now on the smoke of blazing bolts she flies,
410
And speaks in thunder through yon engine’s roar:
In every peal she calls – ‘Awake! arise!’
Say, is her voice more feeble than of yore,
When her war-song was heard on Andalusia’s shore?
XXXVIII
Hark! heard you not those hoofs of dreadful note?
415
Sounds not the clang of conflict on the heath?
Saw ye not whom the reeking sabre smote;
Nor saved your brethren ere they sank beneath
Tyrants and tyrants’ slaves? – the fires of death,
The bale-fires flash on high: – from rock to rock
420
Each volley tells that thousands cease to breathe;
Death rides upon the sulphury Siroc,
Red Battle stamps his foot, and nations feel the shock.
XXXIX
Lo! where the Giant on the mountain stands,
His blood-red tresses deep’ning in the sun,
425
With death-shot glowing in his fiery hands,
And eye that scorcheth all it glares upon;
Restless it rolls, now fix’d, and now anon
Flashing afar, – and at his iron feet
Destruction cowers, to mark what deeds are done;
430
For on this morn three potent nations meet,
To shed before his shrine the blood he deems most sweet.
XL
By Heaven! it is a splendid sight to see
(For one who hath no friend, no brother there)
Their rival scarfs of mix’d embroidery,
435
Their various arms that glitter in the air!
What gallant war-hounds rouse them from their lair,
And gnash their fangs, loud yelling for the prey!
All join the chase, but few the triumph share;
The Grave shall bear the chiefest prize away,
440
And Havoc scarce for joy can number their array.
XLI
Three hosts combine to offer sacrifice;
Three tongues prefer strange orisons on high;
Three gaudy standards flout the pale blue skies;
The shouts are France, Spain, Albion, Victory!
445
The foe, the victim, and the fond ally
That fights for all, but ever fights in vain,
Are met – as if at home they could not die –
To feed the crow on Talavera’s plain,
And fertilize the field that each pretends to gain.
XLII
450
There shall they rot – Ambition’s honour’d fools!
Yes, Honour decks the turf that wraps their clay!
Vain Sophistry! in these behold the tools,
The broken tools, that tyrants cast away
By myriads, when they dare to pave their way
455
With human hearts – to what? – a dream alone.
Can despots compass aught that hails their sway?
Or call with truth one span of earth their own,
Save that wherein at last they crumble bone by bone?
XLIII
Oh, Albuera, glorious field of grief!
460
As o’er thy plain the Pilgrim prick’d his steed,
Who could foresee thee, in a space so brief,
A scene where mingling foes should boast and bleed!
Peace to the perish’d! may the warrior’s meed
And tears of triumph their reward prolong!
465
Till others fall where other chieftains lead,
Thy name shall circle round the gaping throng,
And shine in worthless lays, the theme of transient song.
XLIV
Enough of Battle’s minions! let them play
Their game of lives and barter breath for fame:
470
Fame that will scarce re-animate their clay,
Though thousands fall to deck some single name.
In sooth ’twere sad to thwart their noble aim
Who strike blest hirelings! for their country’s good,
And die, that living
And drove at last the spoilers to their shore?
Red gleam’d the cross, and waned the crescent pale,
395
While Afric’s echoes thrill’d with Moorish matrons’ wail.
XXXVI
Teems not each ditty with the glorious tale?
Ah! such, alas! the hero’s amplest fate!
When granite moulders and when records fail
A peasant’s plaint prolongs his dubious date.
400
Pride! bend thine eye from heaven to thine estate,
See how the Mighty shrink into a song!
Can Volume, Pillar, Pile, preserve thee great?
Or must thou trust Tradition’s simple tongue,
When Flattery sleeps with thee, and History does thee wrong?
XXXVII
405
Awake, ye sons of Spain! awake! advance!
Lo! Chivalry, your ancient goddess, cries;
But wields not, as of old, her thirsty lance,
Nor shakes her crimson plumage in the skies:
Now on the smoke of blazing bolts she flies,
410
And speaks in thunder through yon engine’s roar:
In every peal she calls – ‘Awake! arise!’
Say, is her voice more feeble than of yore,
When her war-song was heard on Andalusia’s shore?
XXXVIII
Hark! heard you not those hoofs of dreadful note?
415
Sounds not the clang of conflict on the heath?
Saw ye not whom the reeking sabre smote;
Nor saved your brethren ere they sank beneath
Tyrants and tyrants’ slaves? – the fires of death,
The bale-fires flash on high: – from rock to rock
420
Each volley tells that thousands cease to breathe;
Death rides upon the sulphury Siroc,
Red Battle stamps his foot, and nations feel the shock.
XXXIX
Lo! where the Giant on the mountain stands,
His blood-red tresses deep’ning in the sun,
425
With death-shot glowing in his fiery hands,
And eye that scorcheth all it glares upon;
Restless it rolls, now fix’d, and now anon
Flashing afar, – and at his iron feet
Destruction cowers, to mark what deeds are done;
430
For on this morn three potent nations meet,
To shed before his shrine the blood he deems most sweet.
XL
By Heaven! it is a splendid sight to see
(For one who hath no friend, no brother there)
Their rival scarfs of mix’d embroidery,
435
Their various arms that glitter in the air!
What gallant war-hounds rouse them from their lair,
And gnash their fangs, loud yelling for the prey!
All join the chase, but few the triumph share;
The Grave shall bear the chiefest prize away,
440
And Havoc scarce for joy can number their array.
XLI
Three hosts combine to offer sacrifice;
Three tongues prefer strange orisons on high;
Three gaudy standards flout the pale blue skies;
The shouts are France, Spain, Albion, Victory!
445
The foe, the victim, and the fond ally
That fights for all, but ever fights in vain,
Are met – as if at home they could not die –
To feed the crow on Talavera’s plain,
And fertilize the field that each pretends to gain.
XLII
450
There shall they rot – Ambition’s honour’d fools!
Yes, Honour decks the turf that wraps their clay!
Vain Sophistry! in these behold the tools,
The broken tools, that tyrants cast away
By myriads, when they dare to pave their way
455
With human hearts – to what? – a dream alone.
Can despots compass aught that hails their sway?
Or call with truth one span of earth their own,
Save that wherein at last they crumble bone by bone?
XLIII
Oh, Albuera, glorious field of grief!
460
As o’er thy plain the Pilgrim prick’d his steed,
Who could foresee thee, in a space so brief,
A scene where mingling foes should boast and bleed!
Peace to the perish’d! may the warrior’s meed
And tears of triumph their reward prolong!
465
Till others fall where other chieftains lead,
Thy name shall circle round the gaping throng,
And shine in worthless lays, the theme of transient song.
XLIV
Enough of Battle’s minions! let them play
Their game of lives and barter breath for fame:
470
Fame that will scarce re-animate their clay,
Though thousands fall to deck some single name.
In sooth ’twere sad to thwart their noble aim
Who strike blest hirelings! for their country’s good,
And die, that living
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