Battle of Talavera, or, The soldier's threnody

THE

Battle

OF

Talavera;

OR,

The Soldier's Threnody.

HADDINGTON:
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THE BATTLE OF TALAVERA

OR,

The Soldier's Threnody.

Ye ſcourges of mankind, diffuſers of ſorrow,
⁠Behold theſe ſad ends of the victims of War:—
Ah! think, ere the loud roaring cannons do rattle,
⁠Before hoſtile armies in cloſe combat meet.
⁠Soldiers Wife.—Stanza

NEAR Tal'vera's heights where the battle rag'd fearleſs
⁠As when wolves with lions in combat contend;
From the brave Britiſh allies a ſoldier ſtray'd cheerleſs
⁠The ground where they ſtrove Spanish rights to defend;
As with rage 'gainſt the foe his boſom was burning,
While the wrongs of the patriot's he truly was mourning,
He ſigh'd for himſelf, thinking ne'er of returning
⁠To his dear native Iſland that ſits in the ſea

That day we embark'd, I ſhall ever remember,
⁠For this cheerleſs country we left much-lov'd home;
My wife ſobb'd aloud with a heart the moſt tender,
⁠My mother wept too but not for me alone;
For on a ſick-bed my poor father was lying,
While brothers and ſiſters around me ftood crying;
Ah! ceaſe cruel Mem'ry, my heart rends with ſighing.
⁠Sad was the day of departure to me!

Lives my poor parents in peace at their home now,
⁠Children and wife with all dear boſom friends,
Health and content can they call it their own now,
⁠Perhaps heavy trials ſtill on them portends:
Yet, even now, lone ideas ſuppreſſing,
Which ever rife my poor boſom diſtreſſing;
Now, I'll ſuppoſe Fortune's favours carreſſing
⁠Them, far in the Iſland that ſits in the ſea.

"No more, ſhall I climb, o'er the wind-beaten mountain,
⁠Where mem'ry the track of my home ſtill can trace;
No more ſhall I drink from the pure glaſſy fountain,
⁠Which oft has reflected content in my face;
Yet who can forſee the events of to-morrow,
Tho' now on my head lowers the chill blaſt of ſorrow,
Perhaps joy's bright ſunſhine may gladden my ſtory
⁠Once more in the Iſland that ſits in the ſea.

"Yet now I exiſt to taſte life's bitter anguiſh,
⁠Where the battle bled moſt, ſure I fought for the foe;
My comrades who fell tho' for hours they did languiſh,
⁠Inſenſible now to the changes below.
Thrice o'er my head glanc'd the ſabre victorious!
Thrice might I finiſh'd my career ſo glorious
When cannons ſublime roar'd aloud in full chorus,
⁠Far from the Iſland that ſits in the ſea.”

Thus the ſoldier lamented, deſpair mark'd his feature,
⁠And hope for a moment was fled from his ſoul;
When he heard a ſoft voice, exclaim "wretched of creatures,
⁠Here ſurely your fate from theſe monſters that prowl.
When a female he ſaw, her ſteps quickly bending
To where the new raiz'd turf the ſlain was defending,
As from her ſtaind garments the blood was deſcending,
⁠In mad ſtrains ſhe utter'd this ſad Threnody.

"Thy daughter is wretch'd, ſleep ſoftly my mother,
⁠Kind heaven reliev'd thee from this rending ſcene,
Beneath this green turf lies my huſband and brother,
⁠Perhaps my brave father is now 'mongſt the ſlain:
Demons! 'twas brutely, in ſpite of my ſcreaming,
To murder my babe with pure innocence beaming,
Soldier's 'twas mad while this wound ſtill was ſtreaming,
⁠To take the laſt Treaſure of poor Malvonie."

Thus the poor Maniac rav'd, till exhauſted, expiring,
⁠She ſunk to the ground, all aſſiſtance was vain;
Now faſt from her body the ſoul was tranſpiring,
⁠The ſoldier advanc'd but to ſee life's laſt ſcene,
For a bandage ſhe'd tore, which her boſom had bound,
That ſcarce ſtem'd the flow of a large gaſhing wound;
The laſt feeble accent her pale lips did ſound,
⁠Was "Oh! my dear mother, I come unto thee."

"Ah! ſad was thy fate," ſaid the ſoldier, "poor woman,
⁠The ſight of thy woes has made mine leſs appear;
I bluſh at myſelf now, 'twas ſo unbecoming
⁠To droop with deſpair when Hope offer'd to chear.
Afreſh ſtream my tears! theſe ſad ſcenes deploring,
Tho' diſtant the fire-balls of battle were roaring.
Yet the widows will ſuffer, the fatherleſs mourn,
⁠Afar in the Iſland that ſits in the ſea.

Ye natives of Britain, how happy your fate now,
⁠Unknown to you the ravages of Spain;
How many this poor Maniac's tale could relate now,
⁠Whoſe dear boſom friend's have been rank'd 'mongſt the ſlain:
But happy ſecure, while thy ſon's are repelling
The foe from afar off thy much-eſteem'd dwelling;
To thee, war is juſt like the ſtorm's diſtant yelling
⁠Far from the Iſland that ſits in the ſea.

FINIS,