Five days you dispute the field;
When 't is sunrise on the plains,
O loved land! thy doom is sealed,
Madden, madden in thy chains!"
Luis Ponce de Leon. Tr. J. H. Wiffen.
AWAKE, ye sons of Spain! awake! advance!
Lo! Chivalry, your ancient goddess, cries; But wields not, as of old, her thirsty lance, Nor shakes her crimson plumage in the skies: Now on the smoke of blazing bolts she flies, And speaks in thunder through yon engine's roar! In every peal she calls, "Awake! arise!"
Say, is her voice more feeble than of yore,
When her war-song was heard on Andalusia's shore?
Hark! heard you not those hoofs of dreadful note?
Sounds not the clang of conflict on the heath?
Saw ye not whom the reeking sabre smote;
Nor saved your brethren ere they sank beneath
Tyrants and tyrants' slaves? - the fires of death,
The bale-fires flash on high: from rock to rock
Each volley tells that thousands cease to breathe ;
Death rides upon the sulphury Siroc,
Red Battle stamps his foot, and nations feel the shock.
Lo! where the Giant on the mountain stands,
His blood-red tresses deepening in the sun,
With death-shot glowing in his fiery hands,
And eye that scorcheth all it glares upon!
Restless it rolls, now fixed, and now anon
Flashing afar, and at his iron feet
Destruction cowers, to mark what deeds are done ; For on this morn three potent nations meet, To shed before his shrine the blood he deems most sweet.
By Heaven! it is a splendid sight to see
(For one who hath no friend, no brother there)
Their rival scarfs of mixed embroidery,
Their various arms that glitter in the air!
What gallant war-hounds rouse them from their lair, And gnash their fangs, loud yelling for the prey! All join the chase, but few the triumph share: The Grave shall bear the chiefest prize away, And Havoc scarce for joy can number their array.
Three hosts combine to offer sacrifice;
Three tongues prefer strange orisons on high;
Three gaudy standards flout the pale blue skies:
The shouts are France, Spain, Albion, Victory!
The foe, the victim, and the fond ally
That fights for all, but ever fights in vain,
Are met- as if at home they could not die
To feed the crow on Talavera's plain,
And fertilize the field that each pretends to gain.
There shall they rot, — Ambition's honored fools! Yes, honor decks the turf that wraps their clay!
Vain Sophistry! in these behold the tools,
The broken tools, that tyrants cast away
By myriads, when they dare to pave their way With human hearts-to what?- -a dream alone. Can despots compass aught that hails their sway? Or call with truth one span of earth their own, Save that wherein at last they crumble boue by boue? Lord Byron.
YON wide-extended town, whose roofs and towers
And poplar avenues are seen far off,
In goodly prospect over scattered 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
Captained, a formidable force they came,
Full fifty thousand. Victor led them on,
A man grown gray in arms, nor e'er in aught
Dishonored, 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
Covered, and flanked 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 stormed, and twice fell back,
Before the bayonet driven. Again at morn
They made their fiery onset, and, again
Repelled, again at noon renewed the strife.
Yet was their desperate perseverance vain,
Where skill by equal skill was countervailed,
And numbers by superior courage foiled;
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
Stand forth conspicuous. While that name endures,
Bear in thy soul, O Spain! the memory
Of all thou sufferedst from perfidious France,
Of all that England in thy cause achieved.
Thou quaint old town of bygone days; Where the Moorish sword-blades shone, Which all the world had learned to praise.
Here naught but solitude now reigns:
Decayed - deserted silent all!
While Alcazar's windows and doors
From their old rusty hinges fall.
A lordly castle once, is now
A common inn, in vulgar hands, Yet still the ancient coat of arms Over the open portal stands.
These naked, gray-green, gloomy rocks
That from the banks of Tagus rise,
They know the buoyant, stirring past,
Where now but desolation lies.
Where once Mohammed's name was pealed, And to Jehovah hymns were sung,
The locomotive's noise alone
Is heard these solitudes among.
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