And now again the evening sheds Her dewy veil on Teio’s side, And from the Sierra’s rocky heads The giant shadows stride; And all is dim and dark again-- Save here and there upon the plain, Still flash the baleful fires, Across the umber’d face of night Casting a dull and flickering light, As if from funeral pyres. But since the close of yester-e’en How alter’d is the martial scene! Again, in night’s surrounding veil, France moves her busy bands--but now She comes not, venturous, to assail The victors in their guarded vale, Or on the mountain’s brow-- Dash’d from her triumph’s windy car She mourns the wayward fate of war, And baffled and dishearten’d, o’er Alberche’s stream and from his shore, With silent haste she speeds, Nor dares, ev’n at that midnight hour, To snatch the rest she needs; Far from the field where late she fought-- The tents where late she lay-- With rapid step and humbled thought, All night she holds her way: Leaving, to Britain’s conquering sons, Standards rent and ponderous guns, The trophies of the fray! The weak, the wounded, and the slain-- The triumph of the battle plain-- The glory of the day! XXXIV. I would not check the tender sigh, Nor chide the pious tear, That heaves the heart and dims the eye For friend or kinsman dear; Ev’n when their honoured reliques lie On victory’s proudest bier; But I would say, for those that die In honour’s high career, For those in glory’s grave who sleep, Weep fondly, but, _exulting_, weep! More freshly from the untimely tomb Renown’s eternal laurels bloom With sullen cypress twined. Fortune is fickle and unsure, And worth and fame to be secure Must be in death enshrin’d! XXXV.