_When Freedom_; the unwise and uncertain management of the campaign by the English home Government has been set forth by Napier with so much emphasis as, in some degree, to impair the reader's full conviction. Yet the amazing superiority in energy and wisdom with which Wellington towered over his contemporaries, (the field being, however, cleared by the recent deaths of Nelson and Pitt), is so patent, that this attempt to do justice to his greatness is offered with hesitation and apology. _Orthez' Bridge_; crosses the river named Gave de Pau;--and covered Soult's forces then lying north of it. THE SOLDIERS' BATTLE November 5: 1854 In the solid sombre mist And the drizzling dazzling shower They may mass them as they list, The gray-coat Russian power; They are fifties 'gainst our tens, they, and more! And from the fortress-town In silent squadrons down O'er the craggy mountain-crown Unseen, they pour. On the meagre British line That northern ocean press'd; But we never knew how few Were we who held the crest! While within the curtain-mist dark shadows loom Making the gray more gray, Till the volley-flames betray With one flash the long array: And then, the gloom. For our narrow line too wide On the narrow crest we stood, And in pride we named it _Home_, As we sign'd it with our blood. And we held-on all the morning, and the tide Of foes on that low dyke Surged up, and fear'd to strike, Or on the bayonet-spike Flung them, and died. It was no covert, that, 'Gainst the shrieking cannon-ball! But the stout hearts of our men Were the bastion and the wall:-- And their chiefs hardly needed give command; For they tore through copse and gray Mist that before them lay, And each man fought, that day, For his own hand! Yet should we not forget 'Gainst that dun sea of foes How Egerton bank'd his line, Till in front a cloud uprose From the level rifle-mouths; and they dived With bayonet-thrust beneath; Clench'd teeth and sharp-drawn breath, Plunging to certain death,-- And yet survived! Nor the gallant chief who led Those others, how he fell; When our men the captive guns Set free they loved so well, And embraced them as live things, by loss endear'd:-- Nor, when the crucial stroke On their last asylum broke, And e'en those hearts of oak Might well have fear'd,-- How Stanley to the fore The citadel rush'd to guard, With that old Albuera cry _Fifty-seventh_! _Die hard_! Yet saw not how his lads clear the crest, And, each one confronting five, The stubborn squadrons rive, And backward, downward, drive,-- --Death-call'd to rest!