The Battle of Talavera

by John Wilson Croker

X.

And is it now a goodly sight,
Or dreadful, to behold
The pomp of that approaching fight—
Waving ensigns, pennons light,
And gleaming blades and bayonets bright,
And eagles wing’d with gold;—
And warrior bands of many a hue,
Scarlet and white and green and blue,
Like rainbows, o’er the morning dew
Their varied tints unfold:
While swells the martial din around,—
And, starting at the bugle’s sound,
The tramping squadrons beat the ground,
And drums unceasing roll:
Frequent and long the warrior cheer,
To glory’s perilous career
Awakes and fires the soul:
And oft, by fits confused and clear,
The din and clang, to fancy’s ear,
The knell of thousands toll.

XI.

Soon, soon shall vanish that array,
Those varied colours fade away
Like meteors light and vain,
And eagle bright and pennon gay,
Ensanguined dust distain:
And soon be hush’d in various death,
The cymbal’s clang, the clarion’s breath,
The thunder of the plain:—
That sun which fires the eastern sky
Shall set, ere noon, to many an eye
In battle’s stormy main!
The young, the gay, the proud, the strong,
Ghastly and gored, shall lie along
In mingled carnage piled.
Blood shall pollute the limpid source,
And Teio flow, with many a corse
Affrighted and defiled.

XII.

But not alone by Teio’s shore,
Tho’ heap’d with slain, and red with gore,
The tide of grief shall flow:—
’Tis not amidst the din of fight,
Nor on the warrior’s crested height,
Death strikes his direst blow:—
Far from the fray, unseen and late,
Descend the bitterest shafts of fate,
Where tender love, and pious care
The lingering hours of absence wear
In solitude and gloom;
And, mingling many a prayer and tear,
Of sire, or child, or husband dear
Anticipate the doom:
Their hopes no trophied prospects cheer,
For them no laurels bloom;
But trembling hope, and feverish fear,
Forebodings wild, and visions drear
Their anguish’d hearts consume.

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!

XIV.

But, tyrant, thou, the cause of all
The blood that streams, the tears that fall,
Who, by no faith or fear confin’d,
In impious triumph o’er mankind,
Thy desolating course hast driven,
Bursting the sacred ties that bind
Man to his fellow and to heaven!
All great and guilty as thou art,
Thou of the iron hand and heart,
Shalt suffer yet the vengeance due
To him, who swears but to betray,
Whose friendship aids but to undo,
And only smiles to slay!
The insatiate fiend who drives thee on
With treacherous hope elate,
From crime to crime, and throne to throne,
From Afric to the arctic zone,
But dupes thee to thy fate:
And Heav’n which, by thy power o’erthrown,
Will one day vindicate its own,
Condemns thee to be great!
The tempest, now thy sport and pride,
The flood on which thy fortunes ride,
Presumptuous and blind,
Ceasing at Heaven’s command to roar,
Shall cast thee naked on the shore,
The hate, and what thou fearest more,
The jest of all mankind.
And in thy hour of parting pain,
The parents’, widows’, orphans’ moan,
The shrieking of the battle plain,
The strangled prisoners’ midnight groan,
Shall harrow up thy brain;
From countless graves, the ghastly crew
Shall burst upon thy frensied view—
Thou peopler of the tomb!
And, stern and silent ’midst their cries,
The murder’d heir of Bourbon rise,
And through the shadowy gloom,
Shake the curst torches in thine eyes
That lighted to his doom!