Bright be thy fame, illustrious Wellington!

Whose arm Britannia’s glory raised so far

That all the matchless victories she had won

Before thee pale beside thy Victory’s star!

For when the Conqueror whirled o’er earth his car,

More strong than Philip’s son to Indus rolled,—

Invoking Freedom’s power his path to mar,

Thou gav’st him battle with thy Britons bold,

And vanquished him who Earth had cast in tyrant-mould.

Bright be thy fame, illustrious Wellington!

Whose ordinance pure, proscribing Rapine’s lust,

Outshone in peace and war NapolÉon;—

Like Aristides fitly called “The Just;”

Or liker his associate in the trust

Of Athens, great Themistocles, excelling

In martial prowess all that turns to dust,

Nor less in Wisdom. Gaul is grateful telling

Thy glories, Scipio-pure, amidst her Lares dwelling.

Shall I not sing thy triumph? I was born

Amid the thunder of thy victories!

The cannon fired for joy upon the morn

That told the nation Salamanca’s skies

Saw thy most skilful battle’s trophy rise—

Reached me still wombed. The fame of Waterloo,

That made each cheek to glow and lit all eyes,

Even to my infant ear half-conscious flew.

All Hail!—for to this Earth I soon must bid adieu.

My cup of life is broken at the full,

My lamp doth fade ere half its light is shed,

And whispereth angel sternly beautiful,

Whose shadowy wings have touched my aching head:

Before the greybeard shall the youth be dead!

Yet still, though perisheth my mortal part,

With thine and England’s glory shall be fed

The echoes roused by my enduring art,

And patriot strains of pride shall free my bursting heart!

Soldier of Liberty! Be this thy praise;

Thy sword was drawn to shield the rights of Man

Against his mightiest Tyrant. Length of days,

And honours of a Demigod, the plan

Of Heaven assigned thy front revered to fan:

Sublime reward! Yet conquests greater thine:—

The path of CÆsar blood and tears o’erran;

Thou mad’st War human—and in Peace canst shine;

Thy hand struck off the chain that galled Milesius’ line!

And well were seconded thy glorious views

By noblest Captains. Many a gallant name

Amongst thy host, if destined thee to lose,

Would surely have achieved eternal Fame!

’Twas patriot zeal of Valour fanned the flame,

That glowed within their breasts like purest gem,

And nought but godlike deeds could quench or tame.

Of hero-pith thy legions, root and stem;

Thy host was worthy thee—and thou wert worthy them!

I late have stood upon thy battle-fields;

On rugged-browed RoriÇa, where ’gainst France

Was earliest proved the strength that Britain wields,

And up the dread ravines thou didst advance

’Mongst olive-groves and ilex, where enhance

The perils of the way such crags as none

Save mountain-goats may leap—yet drove thy lance

The foeman thence. Arbutus smiled upon,

And myrtles kist thy brow, revived by Victory’s sun!

And on Vimieiro, where the deep defile

With rocks and torrent-beds and hardy pines

The foe entangles, while they climb with toil

The crescent-ridge that sweeps to the Atlantic. Shines

Thy bristling bayonet-row, and fall their lines,

Like corn the yeoman reaps. Thy triumph graced

Their cannon captured ’mid the purpling vines;

And backward fell their force to Torres chased,

Where I have marked the skill thy glorious Lines that traced.

And upon Talavera’s glorious hill,

Scorched by the glare of Leo’s burning sun,

Where drank the rival warriors from the rill,

And fired Belluno many a thunderous gun,

Which Britain’s warriors fiercely shouting won;

And plunged our horsemen down the fearful chasm,

Though smote, victorious; and terrific run

The flames through shrubs all parched by heat’s miasm,

Burning the wounded men who lay in mortal spasm!

And on Busaco’s horrid mountain-crest,

Where topples o’er the crags the convent-tower,

And bayonets bristled o’er the eagle’s nest.

The foeman climbs the steep with wondrous power,

But swift our charging files their host devour,

And down the mountain-side they slaughtered roll.

Massena rash, of valour Ney the flower,

Vainly up wooded dell and pine-clad knoll

Urged their fierce veterans. Our’s that day was Glory’s goal!

And at FuÉntes d’Onor, whose chapelled steep

’Gainst multiplied assaults thy forces shield;

Too late arriving, save the dead to weep,

At Albuera’s dire, tremendous field,

Where great the cost—yet Victory’s clarion pealed;

And with terrific march the fusiliers,

When shook the balance scorning proud to yield,

Mounted the fatal hill which cannon clears,

And hurled the foeman down with deafening British cheers!

And at Rodrigo, where the counterscarp

Inviolate standing cost thy Crawfurd’s life,

And ’gainst stern wall and cannon rattling sharp

Man’s naked breast maintained unequal strife;

And Badajoz, where on the stormers, rife

With daring, rushed by deadly breach and scale,

Like lava poured ’gainst bayonet, pike, and knife,

Fronting a hurricane of iron hail,

And mowed by shot and shell—yet made the foeman quail!

For nought could baffle England’s trusted Chief,

Who Marmont’s lines on Salamanca’s plain

Smote like a thunderbolt, keen—rapid—brief,

And rent his legions like a shattered chain!

And at Vitoria wrenched the crown of Spain

From the poor tremulous Usurper’s hand,

The spoils of Empire seized, a countless train

Of cannon, standards, eagles—trophies grand—

Nor, fiery Jourdan, least, thy bÂton of command!

And now upon Navarre’s TyphÆan crest

He stands triumphant, threatening haughty France,

While bounds once more Iberia’s lovely breast,

And close the wounds that held in death-like trance.

Proud beams her eye—she bids the Chief advance,

And points to Roncesvalles where of old

She crushed the invading Gaul with mighty lance.

See, see a Briton as Bernardo bold

His conquering chariot-wheel o’er Gallia’s host hath rolled!

Sublime Pyrene feels his vigorous tread,

And trembles Gaul with all her martial sons,

For sure as Fate his legions shall be led

To where Garumna’s stream to Ocean runs.

Even now his mighty stride the nations stuns!

Soult, on thine arm an Empire’s fate depends.

From San Sebastian’s fortress to Bayonne’s,

By Sarre and Ustaritz great Arthur bends.

Soult spreads incessant toils which England’s lion rends.

Through many a craggy pass and dread defile,

From OyarzÚn and BidasÓa’s stream,

By rugged steeps that Ossa’s crest outpile,

And cataract beds that Earth to sunder seem—

Pyrene’s fearful wilderness where teem

All forms of savage beauty—olive, larch,

Pine, myrtle mixed,—and forests hair-like gleam

Upon that couchant monster’s spinal arch,—

Still slow the leaguered French recede before our march.

What cavalcade through San Sebastian rides?

A Chieftain mighty and a senior grave;

A blooming warrior next his steed bestrides,

Like young Achilles to whom Chiron gave

The Centaur’s mastery. With bounding wave

His light plume dances o’er a maiden fair,

Who reins her genet too with spirit brave;

Worthy, me seems, her grace and beauty rare

With that young hero proud companionship to bear.

’Tis Nial—Isabel; great Arthur’s form

With grave Salustian’s stately fills the van.

They reach the central square where late the storm

Of War with surges wild hath rolled o’er San

Sebastian dire calamity to Man.

Great Arthur sad surveyed the ruin round,

And at the sight a tear his eye o’erran,

For every house was now a blackened mound,

And Solitude more grim where Life so late was found.

Round Santa Clara’s isle that instant came

The Basque barqueras in their shallops slight;

Their graceful oaring still was plied the same,

But one fair pinnace less careered in sight.

Ah, where is she—their glory and delight?

Rose softly sad and low from distance borne

A plaintive strain that in its dying flight

Fell on the town where other breasts are torn.

’Tis thus in chorus sweet they raise their plaint forlorn:—

“Now, Don Salustian”—thus great Arthur said—

“This piteous scene doth touch my heart full sore,

And if War brought not Peace, the Invader fled,

My sword were haply sheathed for ever more;

For none can deeplier Battle’s wreck deplore.

But e’en these ills can Spaniards bear for Spain,

As England bears her warriors’ streaming gore;

And from this hour the villain wears a chain,

Who dares by deeds like these our triumphs to profane.”

Salustian bowed with grave Hidalgo pride:—

“Your words, great Chief, console the Spanish heart.”

Then Nial bounded to great Arthur’s side;

His hat is doffed, his plume doth bird-like start,

His curls rich wave, his eyes new lightnings dart:

“Give, give the right this maiden fair to shield;

Still suffering she from San Sebastian’s smart,

Saved from the wreck of worse than battle-field:

Give, give at altar-foot a husband’s right to wield.”

A word Salustian with the Chief exchanged,

And smiles on both their faces cordial beam.

Sweet Isabel her timid glances ranged

From side to side—a momentary gleam

O’ercast with blushes that like roses seem.

Her fluttering breast now pants like prisoned bird,

Her downcast eyes reluctant ye might deem;

But oh, what joy doth light them at a word:

Young Nial says, “Thou’rt mine!” and every heart is stirred.

Great Arthur blest the union, promising

That Nial’s fortunes should be England’s care,

For of her eaglets none with stronger wing

To soar in Victory’s blazing sunlight dare.

Salustian called on both a blessing rare!

And Nial caught her beauteous hand, while fast

She melts in tears which joy and sorrow share;

In kisses o’er her hand his soul was cast,

The hastening cavalcade to FuÉntarabia past.

Now War his direful tasks again pursues

O’er rugged steep and castled crag sublime;

And, Gaul, thy fields no longer sacred lose

The conquering fame that propt Invasion’s crime.

The mountain-barriers of thy Southern clime

No more shall serve as bulwarks for thy soil,

For Britain’s sons advance as sure as Time,

Soult’s bristling huge entrenchments instant spoil,

And onward march with ease where mocked was human toil.

See on Pyrene’s loftiest summit stand

Majestic Freedom, o’er the despot’s frown

Gigantic towering till her forehead grand

The Sun encircles for a fitting crown,

And stream rays brighter from her eyelids down!

The rainbow clothes her Heaven-ascending form.

Her mighty arm great Arthur beckons on,

Against Soult’s host to urge the fiery storm,

And thus with voice sublime she speaks in accents warm:—

“Oh Arthur! thou my soldier and my shield,

In whom revived to-day is e’en surpassed

Another Arthur’s fame who first revealed

The heroic glow of Chivalry, and cast

A blaze o’er England which for aye will last.

Greater thy glory than Pendragon’s son

With all his knights achieved—to strike aghast

My fiercest foe in many a battle won,

And still with Victory’s march his countless legions stun.

“List to thy Destiny, and nerve thy arm

To accomplish Heaven’s designs. By fair Nivelle

Thy next great battle shall with dire alarm

Man’s bitter foes affright in Earth and Hell.

For fortress-crags and precipices fell,

Cyclopian castles hewn from solid rock,

Redoubt and natural tower where eagles dwell,

Thou’lt instant carry with resistless shock,

The armÉd river ford, the plains of France bemock!

“Next o’er the Nive thou’lt pass by quick surprise

At Ustaritz ’neath Cambo’s beacon light

The stream thy dashing cavalry defies,

Scorns the pontoon and dares the unequal fight

And some shall perish torrent-swept from sight!

Next by Barouilhet’s ridge with thickets spread

Thou’lt stand resistless, battling thrice till night

The combat palls, and still to Victory led—

Triumphant at Saint Pierre, ’mid thousand warriors dead.

“Then o’er the Adour a monster-bridge thou’lt cast,

Lashing the Ocean-tide with chain of power,

Through no vain boast like Xerxes when he past

The stormy Hellespont to mine my tower

In godlike Greece—but fell before her flower!

Hope’s chained chasse-marÉes and gigantic boom

Shall ope a pathway to extend my dower

To Nations suffering ’neath despotic doom,

And o’er the dashing surge shall roll the cannon’s womb.

“And next at Orthez from its Roman camp

Thou’lt baffle Soult upon his convex hill,

His ardour ev’n ’mid seeming victory damp,

And pour thy Picton’s veterans, matchless still,

Through the dread marsh with new dismay to fill

The French battalions, Cotton’s bold hussars

Their rout completing. There thy dauntless will

Thou’lt prove ’neath wound which nought thy progress bars,

And France thy onward tread shall feel, despite of scars!

“Then on the steep and wooded height of Aire,

Where Lusitain’s brigade shall bleeding fly,

And lose the battle but that Hill is there,

Resolved with British steel to do or die!

While ’neath the Frenchman’s charge your galled ally

Outnumbered falls, the might of England’s sons

Will turn the stream of battle, raising high

The fearful war-shout which the foeman stuns,

Who flies to where the Adour with branching channel runs.

“At Tarbes, Bigorre, and Gaudens thou shalt next

Still conquering pass to fair Tolosa’s wall,

Where Soult will desperate stand, and Spain perplext

Behold her warriors snared in thousands fall.

But Clinton, Beresford his breast-works all

Will dauntless carry amid carnage dire;

Mont Rave thou’lt win ere Night shall spread her pall,

And bristling still shall warlike Soult retire,

While o’er Garonne thou’lt pass and Victory’s salvo fire.

“And in that hour thou’lt learn not e’en the great

Usurper’s genius can avert his doom.

His crown an instant he resigns to Fate,

But with more fierce rebound new sway to assume.

War-fires shall then the Belgian fields illume.

’Tis thine NapolÉon’s self at Waterloo

To crush for aye. Despite his cannon’s boom,

Terrific rout and bondage he will rue.

Soldier of Liberty, this task remains to do!”

She said, and pointing to the fields of France,

And beckoning Arthur on with Godlike smile,

That bids the Hero fearlessly advance,

Her giant form dissolves in air, the while

Pyrene shakes with earthquake many a mile,

From peak to peak the volleying thunders roll.

Great Arthur marched, and heaped the trophied pile,

His Destiny fulfilling to its goal,

And Heaven for long renown hath spared his hero-soul.

Aggressive Conquest! tempt not Freedom’s shields,

For Britons still your fiercest ire can quell.

Ambition, Treachery seized Iberia’s fields,

And mark how freemen tyrant-bands expel!

If Victory cheered us, ’twas that Spain might dwell

Beneath her vine secure from despot’s frown.

And if thy dauntless children battled well,

No need thy Edwards, Henries left thy crown,

No need, Britannia, left thy Marlborough of renown!

Grand though thy trophies, ne’er by land or main

Shall War’s barbarian triumphs wake thy pride;

No blood-stained laurels shall thy forehead stain,

But Peace with olive branch o’ershadowing bide,

And mark the Godhead in thy empire wide.

Not human anguish but new joy to Man

Thy limbs shall shed in their colossal stride;

Foredoomed despotic wrath and wrong to ban,

And make creation square with the Eternal plan!

As thine the curb, so thine be too the scourge,

Not lightly used, but terrible in need.

Earth, like Alcides, of its monsters purge,

Both hydra-tyrants and the single breed!

Untusk the boar, and shatter like a reed

The swords resisting Justice; yet be thine

With mercy to attemper strength of deed;

Nor let thy Fecial seers too nice refine,

But loveliest rays of Truth through all thy orbit shine.

Strong be thy armament as fits thy strength

Of mandate powerful thy LernÆan clave;

Nor pinch nor waste distort from its due length

The sword of Justice which the Godhead gave.

And, firstly, still, Britannia, rule the wave!

With floating battlements to plough the main,

Make peaceful every shore! Bid every slave,

While freemen prouder swell, dash off his chain,

When thy artillery’s roar is heard o’er Ocean’s plain!

And lording o’er thy empire of the Deep,

Whose noblest uses are thy virtue’s dower,

Diffusing knowledge where thy navies sweep,

And linking distant lands, where rolls each hour

That mightiest image of surpassing power,

Reign on beneficent—the Nations tell

Thy commerce, like thy shore, is Freedom’s tower.

Scatter with Godlike hand wide blessings—quell

The factious voice abroad, the subjects who rebel.

Shall boys the emerald from thy circlet rend,

Queen of the Nations, Mistress of the Seas?

Must all thy glories thus obscurely end—

A rag of Empire fluttering to the breeze!

And shall Britannia vail to such as these,

Barbarian traffickers in base turmoil,

The sceptre at whose wave Oppression flees?

No, no; while springs a leaf o’er all her soil,

Shall men too spring up there to mock Sedition’s toil!

And generous hearts are Erin’s. Think not they

Who storm the loudest are the deepest felt.

Fair shines the Moon, though dogs unquiet bay,

And rusts the sword that rattled in the belt;

Ere crost, how would the clamorous phalanx melt?

In scurril threats, that wound not, most they shine.

Too base the altars where they’ve groveling knelt,

To feel—true Celts—the valourous glow divine

That led thy “hope forlorn” in many a battle line.

Let selfish virulence its coffers fill,

Let half-formed striplings dream that they have minds;

But vaunts mistake not for a nation’s will,

Nor lucre’s lust for what the true heart binds.

Some fervent spirits still the mockery blinds

Of patriot zeal, but fades the dream amain,

And scatters the weak bubble to the winds.

Not Erin’s heart partakes the traitor-stain;

Sound to the core the breast that bled for thee in Spain!

Yet gently deal with that distracted land;

With generous flood of bounty soothe her woes.

Mete Justice with no nice or niggard hand,

But heap like coals of fire upon thy foes

Magnanimous replies to dastard blows!

Not false the people—every boon be theirs,

Each healing measure quivering wounds to close.

Forget not that thy fame Ierne shares;

Forget not that she gave great Arthur to thy wars!

Fulfil thy destiny! Resistless spread

Through boundless Asia, forced to bear thy arms.

O’er Scindian waters be thy spirit shed,

Divulging ev’n in Conquest Freedom’s charms!

Earth shaketh still with Battle’s late alarms,

Yet peace and joy pervade the fields thou’st won;

Victoria blesses with her hand—not harms.

Beneath Britannia’s sway shall millions run;

Earth’s labouring head art thou, her Cyclop eye and sun!

Yet robed in power and grandeur, bate thy pride,

And ’mid thy glory shudder at thy shame,

For starves the vagrant by the palace side,

And misery’s blight is tarnishing thy fame.

Your bosoms, boundless wealth and luxury, tame;

Nor rags nor squalor all your laws can ban.

Deal, deal more kindly with the poor, nor frame

A felon statute each offence to scan;

And let not Ignorance mar the Eternal’s image, Man!

Oh England! to thyself be true, nor fear

But every hostile voice will soon be dumb.

Smile on majestic ev’n while thou dost hear

O’er subject Ocean roll the doubling drum.

There sleep their wrath, or let the Invader come!

To thee indifferent—thou wilt strike no blow,

Save for such cause as Heaven descendeth from.

Live, Arbitress of Peace and War, that so

All Earth may court thy smile, and dread thee as a foe!