Thus roll’d the short yet lingering night Its clouds o’er hill and dale; But when the morning show’d in light The wreck of that tempestuous fight Scatter’d along the vale; Still seated on her trophied height, Britain exulted at the sight, And France’s cheek grew pale. Lords of the field, the victors view Ten gallant French the turf bestrew For every Briton slain: They view, with not unmingled pride; Some anxious thoughts their souls divide-- Their throbbing hopes restrain; Hundreds beneath their arm have died, But myriads still remain: A sterner strife must yet be tried, A more tempestuous day decide The wavering fates of Spain. VII. From the hill summit they behold, By the first beams of orient gold In adverse arms reveal’d, Full fifty thousand warriors bold, Inured to war, in conquest old, To toil and terror steel’d: But they,--as steel’d to fear or toil, As bold, as proud of war-won spoil, In victory’s path as skill’d, Though doomed with twice their strength to try The hard unequal field, They view the foe with kindling eye, And, in their generous transport, cry “Conquer we may--perhaps must die; But never, never yield!” VIII. Thus ardent they: but who can tell, In Wellesley’s heart what passions swell? What cares must agitate his mind, What wishes, doubts, and hopes combined, Whom with his country’s chosen bands, ’Midst cold allies, in foreign lands, Outnumbering foes surround; From whom that country’s jealous call Demands the blood, the fame of all; To whom ’twere not enough to fall, Unless with victory crown’d? O heart of honour! soul of fire! Even at that moment fierce and dire, Thy agony of fame, When Britain’s fortune dubious hung, And France tremendous swept along In tides of blood and flame; Even while thy genius and thy arm Retrieved the day, and turn’d the storm To France’s rout and shame, Even at that moment, factious spite And envious fraud conspired to blight The honours of thy name! IX.