But shooting high and rolling far, What new and horrid face of war Now flushes on the sight? ’Tis France, as furious she retires, That wreaks, in desolating fires, The vengeance of her flight. Already parch’d by summer’s sun, The grassy vale the flames o’er-run; And, sweeping wreath’d and light Before the wind, the thickets seize, And climb the dry and withered trees, In flashes long and bright. Oh! ’twas a scene sublime and dire, To see that billowy sea of fire, Rolling its flaky tide O’er cultured field and tangled wood, And drowning in the flaming flood The seasons’ hope and pride! XXXII. From Talavera’s wall and tower And from the mountain’s height, Where they had stood for many an hour To view the varying fight, Burghers and peasants in amaze Behold their groves and vineyards blaze: Calm they had view’d the bloody fray, And little thought that France’s groan And England’s sigh, ere close of day, Should mingle with their own! But ah! far other cries than these Are wafted on the dismal breeze-- Groans, not the wounded’s lingering groan-- Shrieks, not the shriek of death alone-- But groan, and shriek, and yell, Of terror, torture, and despair; Such as ’twould chill the heart to hear And freeze the tongue to tell-- When to the very field of fight, Dreadful alike in sound and sight, The conflagration spread, Involving in its fiery wave The brave and reliques of the brave-- The dying and the dead! XXXIII.