In front of Talavera’s wall, And near the confluent streams, the Gaul His royal banner rears to sight, With all the borrow’d blazon bright Of Leon and Castille; And seems to meditate a fight That Spain alone shall feel. Oh, vain pretence! to Wellesley’s eyes, As pervious as the air! He knows, that while the red cross flies, From the strong covert, where she lies Entrench’d and shelter’d, Spain defies The utmost France can dare-- That Britain, on her blood-stain’d hill, The brunt of fight must bear-- And France, though baffled thrice, will still Strain all her force, exhaust her skill, To plant her eagles there; Which soon, from that commanding height Would speed their desolating flight, And, sweeping o’er the scatter’d plain, The hopes of England and of Spain With iron talon tear. XX. Now from the dark artillery broke Lightning flash and thunder stroke; And cloud on cloud of fiery smoke Rolls in the darken’d air: Wrapp’d in its shade, unheard, unseen, Artful surprise and onset keen The crafty foes prepare-- Three columns of the flower of France With rapid step and firm, advance, At first thro’ tangled ground, O’er fence and dell and deep ravine; At length they reach the level green-- The midnight battle’s murderous scene-- The valley’s eastern bound. There in a rapid line they form, Thence are just rushing to the storm By bold Belluno led, When sudden thunders shake the vale, Day seems, as if eclipsed, to fail, The light of heaven is fled; A dusty whirlwind rides the sky, A living tempest rushes by With deafening clang and tread-- ‘A charge! a charge!’ the British cry, ‘And Seymour at its head.’ XXI.