Whose early death this monumental verse
Records? For never more auspicious hopes
Were nipt in flower, nor finer qualities
From goodliest fabric of mortality
Divorced, nor virtues worthier to adorn

The world transferr'd to heaven, than when, ere time
Had measured him the space of nineteen years,
Paul Burrard on Coruña's fatal field
Received his mortal hurt. Not unprepared
The heroic youth was found: for in the ways
Of piety had he been trained; and what
The dutiful child upon his mother's knees
Had learnt, the soldier faithfully observed.
In chamber or in tent, the Book of God
Was his beloved manual; and his life

Beseem'd the lessons which from thence he drew.
For, gallant as he was, and blithe of heart,
Expert of hand, and keen of eye, and prompt
In intellect, religion was the crown
Of all his noble properties. When Paul
Was by, the scoffer, self-abased, restrain'd
The license of his speech; and ribaldry
Before his virtuous presence sate rebuked.
And yet so frank and affable a form

His virtue wore, that wheresoe'er he moved
A sunshine of good-will and cheerfulness
Enliven'd all around. Oh! marvel not,
If, in the morning of his fair career,
Which promised all that honour could bestow

On high desert, the youth was summon'd hence!

His soul required no farther discipline,
Pure as it was, and capable of Heaven.

Upon the spot from whence he just had seen
His General borne away, the appointed ball
Reach'd him. But not on that Gallician ground
Was it his fate, like many a British heart,
To mingle with the soil: the sea received
His mortal relics, . . to a watery grave
Consign'd so near his native shore, so near
His father's house, that they who loved him best,
Unconscious of its import, heard the gun
Which fired his knell.-Alas! if it were known,
When, in the strife of nations, dreadful Death
Mows down with indiscriminating sweep

His thousands ten times told, . . if it were known
What ties are sever'd then, what ripening hopes
Blasted, what virtues in their bloom cut off;
How far the desolating scourge extends;

How wide the misery spreads; what hearts beneath
Their grief are broken, or survive to feel
Always the irremediable loss;

Oh! who of woman born could bear the thought?
Who but would join with fervent piety
The prayer that asketh in our time for peace?
Nor in our time alone! - Enable us,
Father which art in heaven! but to receive
And keep thy word: thy kingdom then should come,
Thy will be done on earth; the victory
Accomplished over Sin as well as Death,
And the great scheme of Providence fulfill'd.

XXIV.

FOR THE BANKS OF THE DOURO.

CROSSING in unexampled enterprize

This great and perilous stream, the English host
Effected here their landing, on the day

When Soult from Porto with his troops was driven.
No sight so joyful ever had been seen

From Douro's banks, not when the mountains sent
Their generous produce down, or homeward fleets
Entered from distant seas their port desired;
Nor e'er were shouts of such glad mariners
So gladly heard, as then the cannon's peal,
And short sharp strokes of frequent musketry,

By the delivered habitants that hour.

For they who beaten then and routed fied
Before victorious England, in their day

Of triumph, had, like fiends let loose from hell,
Fill'd yon devoted city with all forms

Of horror, all unutterable crimes;

And vengeance now had reach'd the inhuman race
Accurst. Oh what a scene did Night behold
Within those rescued walls, when festal fires,
And torches, blazing through the bloody streets,
Stream'd their broad light where horse and man in

death

Unheeded lay outstretch'd! Eyes which had wept In bitterness so long, shed tears of joy,

And from the broken heart thanksgiving mix'd With anguish rose to Heaven. Sir Arthur then Might feel how precious in a righteous cause,

Is victory, how divine the soldier's meed

When grateful nations bless the avenging sword!

XXV. TALAVERA.

FOR THE FIELD OF BATTLE.

YON wide-extended town, whose roofs and towers
And poplar avenues are seen far off,
In goodly prospect over scatter'd woods
Of dusky ilex, boasts among its sons
Of Mariana's name, . . he who hath made
The splendid story of his country's wars
Through all the European kingdoms known.
Yet in his ample annals thou canst find
No braver battle chronicled, than here
Was waged, when Joseph of the stolen crown,
Against the hosts of England and of Spain
His veteran armies brought. By veteran chiefs
Captain'd, a formidable force they came,
Full fifty thousand. Victor led them on,
A man grown grey in arms, nor e'er in aught
Dishonoured, till by this opprobrious cause.
He over rude Alverche's summer stream
Winning his way, made first upon the right
His hot attack, where Spain's raw levies, ranged
In double line, had taken their strong stand
In yonder broken ground, by olive groves

Cover'd and flank'd by Tagus. Soon from thence,
As one whose practised eye could apprehend
All vantages in war, his troops he drew;
And on this hill, the battle's vital point,
Bore with collected power, outnumbering

The British ranks twice told. Such fearful odds
Were balanced by Sir Arthur's master mind
And by the British heart. Twice during night
The fatal spot they storm'd, and twice fell back,
Before the bayonet driven. Again at morn
They made their fiery onset, and again
Repell'd, again at noon renew'd the strife.
Yet was their desperate perseverance vain,
Where skill by equal skill was countervail'd,
And numbers by superior courage foil'd;
And when the second night drew over them
Its sheltering cope, in darkness they retired,
At all points beaten. Long in the red page
Of war, shall Talavera's famous name

XXVII.

FOR THE LINES OF TORRES VEDRAS.

THROUGH all Iberia, from the Atlantic shores
To far Pyrene, Wellington hath left

His trophies; but no monument records
To after-time a more enduring praise,

Than this which marks his triumph here attain'd
By intellect, and patience to the end
Holding through good and ill its course assign'd,
The stamp and seal of greatness. Here the chief
Perceived in foresight Lisbon's sure defence,
A vantage ground for all reverse prepared,
Where Portugal and England might defy
All strength of hostile numbers.

Not for this

Bear in thy soul, O Spain, the memory

Of all thou sufferedst from perfidious France,

Of all that England in thy cause achieved.

XXVI.

FOR THE DESERTO DE BUSACo.

READER, thou standest upon holy ground
Which Penitence hath chosen for itself,
And war disturbing the deep solitude
Hath left it doubly sacred. On these heights
The host of Portugal and England stood,
Arrayed against Massena, when the chief
Proud of Rodrigoo and Almeida won,
Press'd forward, thinking the devoted realm
Full sure should fall a prey. He in his pride
Scorn'd the poor numbers of the English foe,
And thought the children of the land would fly
From his advance, like sheep before the wolf,
Scattering, and lost in terror. Ill he knew
The Lusitanian spirit! Ill he knew
The arm, the heart of England! Ill he knew
Her Wellington! He learnt to know them here.
That spirit and that arm, that heart, that mind,
Here on Busaco gloriously display'd,
When hence repulsed the beaten boaster wound
Below, his course circuitous, and left

His thousands for the beasts and ravenous fowl.
The Carmelite who in his cell recluse
Was wont to sit, and from a skull receive
Death's silent lesson, wheresoe'er he walk
Henceforth may find his teachers. He shall find
The Frenchmen's bones in glen and grove, on rock
And height, where'er the wolves and carrion birds
Have strewn them, wash'd in torrents, bare and
bleach'd

By sun and rain and by the winds of heaven.

Famous for ever; and that later fight

When from Busaco's solitude the birds,
Then first affrighted in their sanctuary,

Fled from the thunders and the fires of war.

But when Spain's feeble counsels, in delay

As erring, as in action premature,

Had left him in the field without support,

And Buonaparte having trampled down

The strength and pride of Austria, this way turn'd
His single thought and undivided power,
Retreating hither the great General came;
And proud Massena, when the boastful chief
Of plundered Lisbon dreamt, here found himself
Stopt suddenly in his presumptuous course.
From Ericeyra on the western sea,

By Mafra's princely convent, and the heights
Of Montichique, and Bucellas famed
For generous vines, the formidable works
Extending, rested on the guarded shores
Of Tagus, that rich river who received
Into his ample and rejoicing port,
The harvests and the wealth of distant lands,
Secure, insulting with the glad display

The robber's greedy sight. Five months the foe
Beheld these lines, made inexpugnable
By perfect skill, and patriot feelings here
With discipline conjoin'd, courageous hands,
True spirits, and one comprehensive mind
All overseeing and pervading all.
Five months, tormenting still his heart with hope,
He saw his projects frustrated; the power
Of the blaspheming tyrant whom he served
Fail in the proof; his thousands disappear,
In silent and inglorious war consumed;
Till hence retreating, madden'd with despite,
Here did the self-styled Son of Victory leave,
Never to be redeem'd, that vaunted name.

XXVIII.

AT SANTAREM.

FOUR months Massena had his quarters here, When by those lines deterr'd where Wellington

Defied the power of France, but loth to leave
Rich Lisbon yet unsack'd, he kept his ground,
Till from impending famine, and the force
Array'd in front, and that consuming war
Which still the faithful nation, day and night,
And at all hours was waging on his rear,
He saw no safety, save in swift retreat.
Then of his purpose frustrated, this child
Of Hell,.. so fitlier than of Victory call'd,
Gave his own devilish nature scope, and let
His devilish army loose. The mournful rolls
That chronicle the guilt of humankind,

Tell not of aught more hideous than the deeds
With which this monster and his kindred troops
Track'd their inhuman way; all cruelties,
All forms of horror, all deliberate crimes,
Which tongue abhors to utter, ear to hear.
Let this memorial bear Massena's name
For everlasting infamy inscribed.

XXIX.

AT FUENTES D'ONORO.

THE fountains of Onoro which give name
To this poor hamlet, were distain'd with blood,
What time Massena, driven from Portugal

By national virtue in endurance proved,
And England's faithful aid, against the land

Not long delivered, desperately made

His last fierce effort here. That day, bestreak'd With slanghter Coa and Agueda ran,

So deeply had the open veins of war

Purpled their mountain feeders. Strong in means,
With rest, and stores, and numbers reinforced,
Came the ferocious enemy, and ween'd
Beneath their formidable cavalry

To trample down resistance. But there fought
Against them here, with Britons side by side,
The children of regenerate Portugal,

And their own crimes, and all-beholding Heaven.
Beaten, and hopeless thenceforth of success
The inhuman Marshal, never to be named

By Lusitanian lips without a curse

Of clinging infamy, withdrew and left
These Fountains famous for his overthrow.

Of skill'd artillerist, nor the discipline
Of troops to absolute obedience train'd;
But by the spring and impulse of the heart,
Brought fairly to the trial, when all else
Seem'd, like a wrestler's garment, thrown aside;
By individual courage and the sense

Of honour, their old country's, and their own,
There to be forfeited, or there upheld; .
This warm'd the soldier's soul, and gave his hand
The strength that carries with it victory.
More to enhance their praise, the day was fought
Against all circumstance; a painful march,
Through twenty hours of night and day prolong'd,
Forespent the British troops; and hope delay'd
Had left their spirits pall'd. But when the word
Was given to turn, and charge, and win the heights;
The welcome order came to them, like rain
Upon a traveller in the thirsty sands.
Rejoicing, up the ascent, and in the front
Of danger, they with steady step advanced,
And with the insupportable bayonet

Drove down the foe. The vanquish'd Victor saw
And thought of Talavera, and deplored

His eagle lost. But England saw well-pleased

Her old ascendency that day sustain'd;

And Scotland shouting over all her hills

Among her worthies rank'd another Graham.

XXXI.

FOR A MONUMENT AT ALBUHERA.

SEVEN thousand men lay bleeding on these heights,
When Beresford in strenuous conflict strove
Against a foe whom all the accidents

Of battle favoured, and who knew full well
To seize all offers that occasion gave.
Wounded or dead, seven thousand here were stretch'd,
And on the plain around a myriad more,
Spaniard and Briton and true Portugueze,
Alike approved that day; and in the cause
Of France, with her flagitious sons compell'd,
Pole and Italian, German, Hollander,
Men of all climes and countries, hither brought,
Doing and suffering, for the work of war.

This point by her superior cavalry

France from the Spaniard won, the elements

Aiding her powerful efforts; here awhile

She seem'd to rule the conflict; and from hence

The British and the Lusitanian arm

Dislodged with irresistible assault

The enemy, even when he deem'd the day
Was written for his own. But not for Soult,
But not for France was that day in the rolls
Of war to be inscribed by Victory's hand,
Not for the inhuman chief, and cause unjust;
She wrote for aftertimes in blood the names
Of Spain and England, Blake and Beresford.

N

XXXII.

TO THE MEMORY OF SIR WILLIAM MYERS.

SPANIARD or Portugucze! tread reverently
Upon a soldier's grave; no common heart
Lies mingled with the clod beneath thy feet.
To honours and to ample wealth was Myers
In England born; but leaving friends beloved,
And all allurements of that happy land,
His ardent spirit to the field of war
Impell'd him. Fair was his career.
The perils of that memorable day,
When through the iron shower and fiery storm
Of death, the dauntless host of Britain made
Their landing at Aboukir; then not less
Illustrated, than when great Nelson's hand,
As if insulted Heaven with its own wrath

He faced

Had arm'd him, smote the miscreant Frenchmen's fleet,

And with its wreck wide-floating many a league
Strew'd the rejoicing shores. What then his youth
Held forth of promise, amply was confirm'd
When Wellesley, upon Talavera's plain,

On the mock monarch won his coronet :

There when the trophies of the field were reap'd
Was he for gallant bearing eminent
When all did bravely. But his valour's orb
Shone brightest at its setting. On the field
Of Albuhera he the fusileers

Led to regain the heights, and promised them
A glorious day; a glorious day was given;
The heights were gain'd, the victory was achieved,
And Myers received from death his deathless crown.
Here to Valverde was he borne, and here
His faithful men amid this olive grove,
The olive emblem here of endless peace,
Laid him to rest. Spaniard or Portugueze,
In your good cause the British soldier fell;
Tread reverently upon his honour'd grave.

XXXIII.

EPITAPH.

STEEP is the soldier's path; nor are the heights
Of glory to be won without long toil
And arduous efforts of enduring hope;
Save when Death takes the aspirant by the hand,
And cutting short the work of years, at once
Lifts him to that conspicuous eminence.
Such fate was mine. The standard of the Buffs
I bore at Albuhera, on that day

When, covered by a shower, and fatally

For friends misdeem'd, the Polish lancers fell
Upon our rear. Surrounding me, they claim'd

My precious charge. "Not but with life!" I cried,
And life was given for immortality.

The flag which to my heart I held, when wet
With that heart's blood, was soon victoriously
Regain'd on that great day. In former times,
Marlborough beheld it borne at Ramilies;
For Brunswick and for liberty it waved

Triumphant at Culloden; and hath seen
The lilies on the Caribbean shores
Abased before it. Then too in the front
Of battle did it flap exultingly,

When Douro, with its wide stream interposed,
Saved not the French invaders from attack,
Discomfiture, and ignominious rout.

My name is Thomas: undisgraced have I
Transmitted it. He who in days to come
May bear the honour'd banner to the field,
Will think of Albuhera, and of me.

XXXIV.

FOR THE WALLS OF CIUDAD RODRIGO.

HERE Craufurd fell, victorious, in the breach,
Leading his countrymen in that assault
Which won from haughty France these rescued walls;
And here intomb'd far from his native land
And kindred dust, his honour'd relics rest.
Well was he versed in war, in the Orient train'd
Beneath Cornwallis; then for many a year
Following through arduous and ill-fated fields
The Austrian banners; on the sea-like shores
Of Plata next, still by malignant stars
Pursued; and in that miserable retreat,
For which Coruña witness'd on her hills

The pledge of vengeance given. At length he saw,
Long woo'd and well deserved, the brighter face
Of Fortune, upon Coa's banks vouchsafed,
Before Almeida, when Massena found
The fourfold vantage of his numbers foil'd,
Before the Briton, and the Portugal,

There vindicating first his old renown,

And Craufurd's mind that day presiding there.
Again was her auspicious countenance
Upon Busaco's holy heights reveal'd;
And when by Torres Vedras, Wellington,
Wisely secure, defied the boastful French,

With all their power; and when Onoro's springs
Beheld that execrable enemy

Again chastised beneath the avenging arm.
Too early here his honourable course
He closed, and won his noble sepulchre.
Where should the soldier rest so worthily
As where he fell? Be thou his monument,
O City of Rodrigo, yea be thou,
To latest time, his trophy and his tomb!
Sultans, or Pharaohs of the elder world,
Lie not in Mosque or Pyramid enshrined
Thus gloriously, nor in so proud a grave.

XXXV.

TO THE MEMORY OF MAJOR GENERAL MACKINNON,

SON of an old and honourable house,
Henry Mackinnon from the Hebrides
Drew his descent, but upon English ground
An English mother bore him. Dauphiny

Beheld the blossom of his opening years;
For hoping in that genial clime to save
A child of feebler frame, his parents there
Awhile their sojourn fix'd: and thus it chanced
That in that generous season, when the heart
Yet from the world is pure and undefiled,
Napoleon Buonaparte was his friend.

The adventurous Corsican, like Henry, then
Young, and a stranger in the land of France,
Their frequent and their favour'd guest became,
Finding a cheerful welcome at all hours,
Kindness, esteem, and in the English youth
Quick sympathy of apprehensive mind
And lofty thought heroic. On the way
Of life they parted, not to meet again.
Each follow'd war, but, oh! how differently
Did the two spirits which till now had grown
Like two fair plants, it seem'd, of kindred seed,
Develope in that awful element !

For never had benignant nature shower'd
More bounteously than on Mackinnon's head
Her choicest gifts. Form, features, intellect,
Were such as might at once command and win
All hearts. In all relationships approved,
Son, brother, husband, father, friend, his life
Was beautiful; and when in tented fields,
Such as the soldier should be in the sight
Of God and man was he. Poor praise it were
To speak his worth evinced upon the banks
Of Douro, Talavera's trophied plain,
Busaco's summit, and what other days,
Many and glorious all, illustrated

His bright career. Worthier of him to say
That in the midst of camps his manly breast
Retain'd its youthful virtue; that he walk'd
Through blood and evil uncontaminate,
And that the stern necessity of war
But nurtured with its painful discipline
Thoughtful compassion in that gentle soul,
And feelings such as man should cherish still
For all of woman born. He met his death
When at Rodrigo on the breach he stood
Triumphant; to a soldier's wish it came
Instant, and in the hour of victory.
Mothers and maids of Portugal, oh bring

Your garlands here, and strew his grave with flowers;
And lead the children to his monument,
Grey-headed sires, for it is holy ground!
For tenderness and valour in his heart,
As in your own Nunalures, had made
Their habitation; for a dearer life
Never in battle hath been offered up,
Since in like cause and in unhappy day,
By Zutphen's walls the peerless Sidney fell.
'Tis said that Buonaparte, when he heard
How thus, among the multitude whose blood
Cries out to Heaven upon his guilty head,

His early friend had fallen, was touch'd with grief.
If aught it may avail him, be that thought,
That brief recurrence of humanity
In his hard heart, remember'd in his hour.

XXXVI.

FOR THE AFFAIR AT ARROYO MOLINOS.

He who may chronicle Spain's arduous strife Against the Intruder, hath to speak of fields Profuselier fed with blood, and victories Borne wider on the wings of glad report;

Yet shall this town, which from the mill-stream takes
Its humble name, be storied as the spot
Where the vain Frenchman, insolent too long
Of power and of success, first saw the strength
Of England in prompt enterprize essayed,
And felt his fortunes ebb, from that day forth
Swept back upon the refluent tide of war.
Girard lay here, who late from Caceres,
Far as his active cavalry could scour,
Had pillaged and opprest the country round;
The Spaniard and the Portugueze he scorn'd,
And deem'd the British soldiers all too slow,
To seize occasion, unalert in war,

And therefore brave in vain. In such belief
Secure at night he laid him down to sleep,
Nor dreamt that these disparaged enemies
With drum and trumpet should in martial charge
Sound his reveille. All day their march severe
They held through wind and drenching rain; all night
The autumnal tempest unabating raged,
While in their comfortless and open camp
They cheer'd themselves with patient hope: the storm
Was their ally, and moving in the mist, -
When morning open'd, on the astonish'd foe
They burst. Soon routed horse and foot, the French
On all sides scattering, fled, on every side

Beset, and every where pursued, with loss

Of half their numbers captured, their whole stores,
And all their gather'd plunder. 'Twas a day

Of surest omen, such as fill'd with joy
True English hearts... No happier peals have e'er
Been roll'd abroad from town and village tower
Than gladden'd then with their exultant sound
Salopian vales; and flowing cups were brimm'd
All round the Wrekin to Sir Rowland's name.

Nor often hath the cold insensate earth
Closed over such fair hopes, as when the grave
Received young Barré's perishable part;
Nor death destroyed so sweet a dream of life.
Nature, who sometimes lavisheth her gifts
With fatal bounty, had conferred on him
Even such endowments as parental love

Might in its wisest prayer have ask'd of Heaven;

An intellect that, choosing for itself

The better part, went forth into the fields

Of knowledge, and with never-sated thirst

Drank of the living springs; a judgement calm

And clear; a heart affectionate; a soul