XIII.
All tremble now, but not on all,
Poison’d with equal woe, shall fall
The shaft of destiny:—to some
The dreadful tale of ill shall come,
Not unallayed with good;
And they, with mingled grief and pride,
Shall hear that in the battle’s tide
Their darling soldier sank and died;—
Died as a soldier should!
But in the rough and stormy fray,
Many are doomed to death to-day,
Whose fate shall ne’er at home be told,
Whose very names the grave shall fold;
Many, for whose return, in vain
The wistful eye of love shall strain,
In vain parental fondness sigh,
In cruel hope that ne’er can die,
And filial sorrow mourn—
On Talavera’s plain they lie,
No! never to return!