VIII.
Thus ardent they: but who can tell,
In Wellesley’s heart what passions swell?
What cares must agitate his mind,
What wishes, doubts, and hopes combined,
Whom with his country’s chosen bands,
’Midst cold allies, in foreign lands,
Outnumbering foes surround;
From whom that country’s jealous call
Demands the blood, the fame of all;
To whom ’twere not enough to fall,
Unless with victory crown’d?
O heart of honour! soul of fire!
Even at that moment fierce and dire,
Thy agony of fame,
When Britain’s fortune dubious hung,
And France tremendous swept along
In tides of blood and flame;
Even while thy genius and thy arm
Retrieved the day, and turn’d the storm
To France’s rout and shame,
Even at that moment, factious spite
And envious fraud conspired to blight
The honours of thy name!