While the world's anxious eye was cast,
With many a trembling wish on thee,
To see thy proudest hopes surpassed,

By this bright day of victory!
To see a chief and veteran band,
(Who boasted in their pride
From victory's very side

To have received with eager hand

Her keenest, strongest brand of doom)

With all the laurel trophies crowned

Their hands had gleaned from nations round,—

A mighty sacrifice to come;

And yield reluctant all their bays,
To heap the altar of thy praise!
High gifted man! whoe'er survey
The actions of that glorious day,
See hosts so oft in danger tried,
With place and number on their side,
Spite of each vantage, yielding still
To Britain's fire and Wellesley's skill,
Or friend or foeman must declare,
The hand of Fortune swayed not there!
No, mighty chief, relenting Heaven
To thee a glorious task hath given;
Hath steeled thy arm, illumed thy mind,
And bade thee succour lost mankind;
With thee the signal spear hath hurled,
To crush the tyrant of the world.
Hark! how the nations round proclaim
The praises of thy deathless name,

And hymn thy battles won!

And Britain, bounding 'midst her tide,
Takes up the strain, and spreads it wide,
To tell the listening world, with pride,
The greatness of her Wellington!

CONCLUSION

The song is hushed-the visioned pomps of fight
Sink from my eye, and die upon my ear!
Lost is the shout of wrath, the cry of fright;
Arms, flags, and battling hosts no more appear.
But loud upon the gale I seem to hear

The voice of triumph from another shore !
On Britain's Isle ascends the gladsome cheer.
Awake, my shell, thy failing chords once more,
Join in the festal hymn, and all thy task is o'er.

First, unto Thee, benignant Heaven, we pay
The sacred anthems of our grateful pride!
Whose mighty hand on this auspicious day
Hath borne the sword of vengeance on our side :
How shall our words express the votive tide
Read in our swelling breasts our thoughts of flame!
Oh, be Thy dread assistance still supplied
To Britain's arm, to Britain's generous aim,
And whet her hallowed spear the men of blood to tame

And next, O Wellington, to thee is due

The plausive tribute, and the laurel crown!
And them with thee, whose kindred spirits flew
For Britain's safety to despise their own!
Hail to the gallant sons of pure renown!
Hail to the guardians of their native strand!
O gracious Heaven, around their head hang down
Thy sacred mantle-speed their generous hand
To blast oppression's plans, and save an injured land!
Flushed with success, we saw the lawless crowd,
(Whose every threat the nations wont to weep,
As deed already done)—they rushed-they vowed
To whelm our slighted legions in the deep.
Oh feeble boast! from Torres Vedras' steep

Behold the furious bloodhounds kept at bay!
Behold them fly from thence, a troubled heap,

Distress and danger lowering round their way,
Till their last hopes are quenched in Salamanca's fray !
Rise, Spaniards, rise, and grasp the battle brand,
Avenge your wrongs, redeem your trampled laws;
Rise, and repel the harpies of your land!

For now the foe his iron rod withdraws;
And to sustain his brethren's baffled cause,
Calls off his hordes, and leaves you time to dare,-
Curse on the wretch who slights this happy pause,
To rush in arms to Freedom's shrine, and swear
His dying land to save, or her sad fate to share!
They wake-they rise—they cast their bonds away,
Burst the vain fetters of their erring pride;
'Neath Britain's standard join in firm array,
And call on Wellington their rage to guide!
Lo! to thy doom, proud tyrant, far and wide
The precepts of the British Fabius fly!

Hear'st thou the shouts that on the north wind ride?
Hear'st thou, dark man, thy hapless people's cry,

To sink mid Russian snows, and curse thee as they die ?

Behold the murderers of the word's repose
Advance in mad Ambition's full career;
The summer sun upon the pageant glows,
And visionary spoils their labours cheer,-
But famine and disaster hover near,

And midst the waste spring down upon their prey.
Ruin and dearth instead of spoils appear—
Repulsed, distressed, beset upon their way,
Thousands on thousands fall in horrible dismay.

When, righteous Heaven, will all these horrors cease? When will the measure of Thy wrath be spanned? When will Thy angel ministers of peace

Descend on earth, and wave their hallowed wand? Then shall the smiling Muse with raptured hand, Tear from her patriot lyre the sanguine string,

And cowering to her long-loved Fairyland, Strive on the golden links of peace to fling

A wreath of votive flowers, fresh culled from Fancy's spring.

INDEX