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. IX. 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! X. 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! XI. 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! XII. 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! XIII. 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! XIV.