Iberia Won 53

Iberia Won 53

VIII.

 

And near to fair Behóbia’s broken arch

The Lusitan battalion secret placed

Is with the British guards prepared to march

Beyond the Adour, till Gaul herself shall taste

Invasion’s sweets, her dreams of glory chased!

Still stand i’ the camp the tent-sheets as before,

Nor change appears nor new design embraced,

When breaks that clouded morn from mist-drops o’er

Pyrene’s towering hills, and gloom o’erspreads the shore.

 

 

IX.

 

Beneath Andaye our bold brigades emerge,

And in two columns rapid cross the sand.

Silent as Death they gain the river’s verge,

They pass the fords, they reach the further land.

Then rose on high a rocket streaming grand,

The signal true from Fuéntarabia’s tower;

And howitzer and cannon briskly manned

From tall San Marcial raised their voice of power,

And covered with their fire the fords in peril’s hour.

 

 

X.

 

Seven columns o’er the sand like serpents wind,

With crimson bright and azure scales bespread--

The various garbs of Spain and England joined--

And glancing bayonets bristle o’er each head;

No Hydra in Lernæan marsh so dread!

The Gaul o’ermatched can scarcely trust his eyes.

Confusedly gathering each with shame is red;

And form our lines beyond the stream ere flies

A hostile shot, so great that terrible surprise!

 

 

XI.

 

Now mustering yet disordered forth they come,

For spreads the alarm: _Alerte! alerte!_’s the cry.

The hurrying leaders urge them--rolls the drum,

And to San Marcial’s thunderous guns reply

Their cannon from the Grand Monarque on high.

But all too late the movement--see, their camp

Beneath Andaye is carried manfully

At glittering point of bayonet. Nought can damp

The ardour of our men, or check their onward tramp.

 

 

XII.

 

Vain, Boyer, thy decision--vain, Maucune,

Thy energy. Soult hears the cannonade

At Espelette, and rushes forth full soon;

But ere he comes his camps a prey are made

By Britain’s sons beneath Andaya’s shade.

Zugáramurdi feels the advancing power,

And D’Erlon sees his post by Fate betrayed--

The Lusitan battalion’s fairest flower

Alone by France cut down in that eventful hour.

 

 

XIII.

 

Our German Chasseurs now by Halket led

The Grand Monarque with vigorous footsteps climb.

Before their onset fierce the Gaul hath fled;

But, guardian of the pass, that peak sublime

Must not be yielded in an instant’s time.

Reille pours his masses on the mountain’s brow,

With field artillery, to efface the crime

Of light concession. Halt the Germans now,

For tired and wounded sore their spirits an instant bow.

 

 

XIV.

 

But Cameron with his gallant warriors rushed

Straight through their broken ranks, and gained the peak,

Where stands the Wreathéd Cross. Ne’er torrent gushed

From Mandal more impetuous fierce to seek

The plain. Beneath the shock Gaul’s columns break.

First fly their cannon down the mountain-side,

And next--the mouths secured that dare not speak--

To a lower ridge the infantry doth glide

Where forms their line, not yet abated all their pride.

 

 

XV.

 

Narrow the pathway leading to the ridge,

Which now the Frenchmen clustering strongly hold;

But o’er it urge, like passing tiniest bridge,

In single column led by Cameron bold,

Our heroes as at Azincour of old.

The hill doth inward curve--concentrate fire

The foemen pour; but by the shout appalled

Of sturdiest freemen, swift the French retire,

The British bayonet ne’er withstanding in its ire.

 

 

XVI.

 

And Freyre’s Spaniards now the peak have won

Of Mandal lording o’er his craggy slopes,

Where the Green Mountain glistens in the sun,

And tow’rds Urogne an easy pathway opes.

Thus turned his flanks, and foiled in front his hopes,

Reille by the causeway of Bayonne recedes,

Till Soult’s great voice the flight majestic stops.

In vain the foeman’s breast contending bleeds;--

The Bidasóa’s won--not least of England’s deeds!

 

 

XVII.

 

But yet the pass of Vera we must gain,

Where now Girón from Ivantelly’s come

And Longa with the skirmishers of Spain,

And Alten too with men Old England from--

Not these the least, I ween, in Victory’s sum!

Dire were the works upon the heights above

Which Gaul could raise, but not the brave benumb.

And here was Nial, oft with tenderest love

Musing on Isabel, poor lorn and fluttering dove!

 

 

XVIII.

 

The youth looked up: by outward posts defended

And star-redoubts he saw the Bayonnette;

The Commissari with that mountain blended

Was girt with abatís incessant met.

He thought those bulwarks would be England’s yet!

A gulf profound with skirmishers was filled,

And thickest woods where marksmen keen were set.

Rugged the path where Spain her hope must build,

With turns abrupt where men by striplings might be killed.

 

 

XIX.

 

An isolated mountain midway rose--

’Tis called “The Boar”--by France’s warriors crowned;

And Longa’s guns and Colborne’s rifles chose

The toilsome task to gain this lofty ground--

So high, though dwarfed amongst the peaks around,

That the spent musket-bullets singing fell

All harmless at its foot with feeble sound,

Which marksmen from the crest directed well

’Gainst our advancing men, but none its tale could tell.

 

 

XX.

 

The word is given, and swift our heroes climb

The mountain, Nial first their steps to guide.

A pine-wood’s gained far up in quickest time--

They breathe a moment--with disdainful pride

Doth Nial dash each shadowing branch aside,

And forward rush, exclaiming, “On men, on!”

His gallant followers scorn secure to bide

Behind--the summit’s gained--the foemen wan

Scarce meet their dashing charge; an instant--they are gone!

 

 

XXI.

 

Emboldened by this triumph rush the Allies;

Our columns plunge into the rough defile.

The dark ravine to the left with lusty cries

Is ta’en by Longa’s Leonese, the while

Colborne’s brigade o’er narrow pathways toil

To the Bayonnette with skirmishers before,

Breastwork, redoubt, and abatís to spoil.

With men and fire the slopes are covered o’er,

And curls white smoke above the forest-battle’s roar.