But not alone by Teio’s shore, Tho’ heap’d with slain, and red with gore, The tide of grief shall flow:-- ’Tis not amidst the din of fight, Nor on the warrior’s crested height, Death strikes his direst blow:-- Far from the fray, unseen and late, Descend the bitterest shafts of fate, Where tender love, and pious care The lingering hours of absence wear In solitude and gloom; And, mingling many a prayer and tear, Of sire, or child, or husband dear Anticipate the doom: Their hopes no trophied prospects cheer, For them no laurels bloom; But trembling hope, and feverish fear, Forebodings wild, and visions drear Their anguish’d hearts consume. XIII. All tremble now, but not on all, Poison’d with equal woe, shall fall The shaft of destiny:--to some The dreadful tale of ill shall come, Not unallayed with good; And they, with mingled grief and pride, Shall hear that in the battle’s tide Their darling soldier sank and died;-- Died as a soldier should! But in the rough and stormy fray, Many are doomed to death to-day, Whose fate shall ne’er at home be told, Whose very names the grave shall fold; Many, for whose return, in vain The wistful eye of love shall strain, In vain parental fondness sigh, In cruel hope that ne’er can die, And filial sorrow mourn-- On Talavera’s plain they lie, No! never to return! XIV.