Yes, thou shalt learn--and, at the tale, Thy pride shall shrink, thy hope shall fail, Though falsehood’s hand have trac’d The lying legend--thou shall know Thy marshals foiled--thy thousands low-- Thy puppet King disgrac’d! Far other thoughts their bosoms fill; As now to Talavera’s hill Proud in their numbers and their skill, The Gallic columns haste: The same they are, and led by those, The scourges of the world’s repose, Victors of Milan’s fair domain, Of Austerlitz’s wintry plain, And Friedland’s sandy waste: Who Prussia’s shiver’d sceptre hurl’d Down to the dust, and from the world Her very name erased: Who boast them, in presumptuous tone, Each feat and fortune to have known Of war, except _defeat_ alone; But now of _that_ to taste! XVII. Valiant tho’ vain, tho’ boastful wise-- Marshals, and Dukes!--with skilful eyes They view the adverse line; And well their prudent councils weigh The eventful danger of the day, Where Britain’s banners shine. ‘What though the Spanish spear we foil, Poor were the prize, and vain the toil:-- Nothing is done till Britain’s spoil Attest our victory: Till, on the wings of terror borne, The Leopards, scattered and forlorn, Fly to their guardian sea. On then!--let _Britain_ prove our might! _Her’s_ be the trial of the fight, The peril and the pain! Press her with growing thousands round, Dash that red banner to the ground, And seal the fate of Spain!’ XVIII. Thus France her baseless vision forms: But HE,--long tried in battle storms-- In Ind’s unequal war Scattering, like dust, the sable swarms Of Scindiah and Berar; He, conqueror still where’er he turns, On Zealand’s frozen reign, Or where the sultry summer burns Vimero’s rocky plain; Who, from his tyrant station shook, With grasp of steel, Abrantes’ Duke; HE, who from Douro’s rescued side, Dispersed Dalmatia’s upstart pride;-- In fortune and desert, the same On every scene of war, Sebastiani’s pride shall tame; And practised Jourdan’s veteran fame, And Victor! thy portentous name Shall fade before his star! XIX.