V.
Far o’er the plain, and to the shores
Of Teio and Alberche, roars
The tumult of the fight;
The distant camps, alarmed, arise;
And throbbing hearts, and straining eyes
Watch, through the dull and vapoury skies,
The portents of the night—
The vollying peals, terrific cries,
And gleams of lurid light—
But all is indistinct:—in vain
The anxious crowds their senses strain,
And, in the flash or shout,
Fancy they catch the signal plain
Of victory or rout:—
The signal dies away again,
And the still, breathless crowds remain
In darkness and in doubt.
VI.
Thus roll’d the short yet lingering night
Its clouds o’er hill and dale;
But when the morning show’d in light
The wreck of that tempestuous fight
Scatter’d along the vale;
Still seated on her trophied height,
Britain exulted at the sight,
And France’s cheek grew pale.
Lords of the field, the victors view
Ten gallant French the turf bestrew
For every Briton slain:
They view, with not unmingled pride;
Some anxious thoughts their souls divide—
Their throbbing hopes restrain;
Hundreds beneath their arm have died,
But myriads still remain:
A sterner strife must yet be tried,
A more tempestuous day decide
The wavering fates of Spain.
VII.
From the hill summit they behold,
By the first beams of orient gold
In adverse arms reveal’d,
Full fifty thousand warriors bold,
Inured to war, in conquest old,
To toil and terror steel’d:
But they,—as steel’d to fear or toil,
As bold, as proud of war-won spoil,
In victory’s path as skill’d,
Though doomed with twice their strength to try
The hard unequal field,
They view the foe with kindling eye,
And, in their generous transport, cry
“Conquer we may—perhaps must die;
But never, never yield!”
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!
IX.
He thinks not of them:—From that height
He views the scene of future fight,
And, silent and serene, surveys,
Down to the plain where Teio strays,
The woods, the streams, the mountain ways,
Each dell and sylvan hold:
Prescient of all the war, he knows
On wing or center, where the foes
May pour their fury most;
And marks what portion of the field
To their advance ’twere good to yield,
And what must not be lost.
And all his gallant chiefs around
Observant watch, where o’er the ground
His eagle glance has rolled.
Few words he spake, or needed they,
Of counsel for the approaching fray,
Where to condense the loose array,
Or where the line unfold:
They saw, they felt what he would say,
And the best order of the day,
It was his eye that told.