The Battle of Talavera

TENTH EDITION.
’...... Sibi cognomen in hoste ‘Fecit; et Hispanam sanguine tinxit humum. ’ Ov. Fast. 6.
London: PRINTED FOR JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE-STREET. —— 1816.
Dicam insigne, recens, adhuc Indictum ore alio.
’Twas dark; from every mountain head The sunny smile of heaven had fled, And evening, over hill and dale Dropt, with the dew, her shadowy veil; In fabled Teio’s darkening tide Was quenched the golden ray; Silent, the silent stream beside, Three gallant people’s hope and pride, Three gallant armies lay. France, every nation’s foe, is there, And Albion’s sons her red cross bear, With Spain’s young Liberty to share The patriot array, Which, spurning the oppressor’s chain, Springs arm’d, from every hill and plain From ocean to the eastern main— From Seville to Biscaye. All, from the dawn till even-tide, The fortune of the field had tried In loose but bloody fray; And now with thoughts of dubious fate Feverish and weary, they await A fiercer, bloodier day.
Fraternal France’s chosen bands He of the stolen crown commands, And on Alberche’s hither sands Pitches his tents to-night: While, Talavera’s wall between And olive groves and gardens green, Spain quarters on the right; All scatter’d in the open air In deep repose; save here and there, Pondering to-morrow’s fight, A spearman, in his midnight prayer, Invokes our Blessed Lady’s care And good Saint James’s might. Thence to the left, across the plain And on the neighbouring height, The British bands, a watchful train, Their wide and warded line maintain, Fronting the east, as if to gain The earliest glimpse of light.
While there, with toil and watching worn, The Island warriors wait the morn, And think the hours too slow; Hark!—on the midnight breezes borne Sounds from the vale below! What sounds? No gleam of arms they see, Yet still they hear—What may it be? It is, it is the foe! From every hand and heart and head— As quick was never lightning sped— Weakness and weariness are fled; And down the mountain steeps, Along the vale, and through the shade, With ball and bayonet and blade, They seek the foe who dares invade The watch that England keeps. Nor do the dauntless sons of France Idly await the hot advance:— As active and as brave Thrice rush they on, and thrice their shock Rebounding breaks, as from the rock Is dash’d the wintry wave.