XLIV
THE STANDARD-BEARER OF THE BUFFS
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 Albuera, 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 Albuera, and of me.
Robert Southey.
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