Page:The Lady's Book Vol. I.pdf/51

THE MEMORY OF THE BRAVE. 45 the action, those lancers passed the river unobserved, and, on the storm abating, they were seen in front within musket shot of our lines, and reports were made that they were French, but not credited. From their being thus allowed to move quietly about, they evidently perceived that they were mistaken for friends, and kept in a compact body, waiting an opportunity to pounce upon us. At length, while our divisions were detached, in the act of deploying into line, they advanced in squadrons, at full gallop, shouting in Spanish, “Vivan los Ingleses!” “Vivan los amigos de Espana!”  and in the next moment they were in our ranks, which were so completely surprised that whole companies were destroyed without firing one shot.

“The defeat of the enemy, the recovery of the heights that had been so fatally lost, and the other events of this action being so well known, I omit their relation, and shall only observe that my narrators gave their commander little credit for what has been since termed one of the most brilliant victories of the Peninsular war. Their complaints were loud and general, and always ended with some expression of deep regret for the absence of him whom we looked up to with unlimited confidence, whose presence gave us additional courage, and under whom we deemed ourselves invincible and certain of success need I add that person was Wellington!

“From the heavy rain that had fallen the preceding day, and the trampling of men and horses, the field of battle was at this time a perfect puddle, without one dry or green spot on which we could repose or be seated. Wearied and chilled after our forced march, and wading through the sloughs, we kindled fires, and, as fuel could not be had, the muskets lying about were thrown on promiscuously for that purpose. These arms made truly a crack fire, for several being charged immediately exploded, the balls whistling through the mud and casting it up in our faces. Alarmed at those salutes, we for some time examined if the guns were discharged, but, tired of those researches, several again exploded, happily without doing any mischief.

“On this night our situation was, if possible, more gloomy and uncomfortable than any we had yet experienced, war on every hand presenting one of his most horrid and terrific forms, while, at the same time, we laboured under the greatest privations. Neither provisions nor liquors could be had at any price, and the surrounding country was so wild and depopulated as to bid defiance to all attempts to better our state, even by marauding. The only place of rest, if such it could be called, was sitting on our knapsacks in the mud, into which many occasionally dropped, overcome with sleep and fatigue, and remained for a time as insensible as the gory corpse on the field. During those heavy and lengthened hours, when about to fall into the mire, I several times started up, and gazed on this strange and appalling scene. The ghastly lines of the dead were faintly visible through the gloom, while the deep snoring of those lying about, or who still maintained their balance on their seats, nearly drowned the calls of the sentinels and the low moanings of the mutilated soldiers who still continued to feel. The dull monotony of those sounds were at times broken by others in strict unison with such a time and place. From about midnight the howling of wolves was heard in the direction of the river; they had probably left their dens in the adjacent wood to feast on this field of carnage. Their howls seemed at times as if answered by the calls and croakings of the birds of prey which kept hovering about. I even thought that they seemed to say, “Why remain you here, after having laid out for us such a grand and rich repast?” The thoughts of home, the friends I had there left, and the fabulous legends of infancy passed over my memory in quick review. I paused, and found that the most horrid of those “tales of terror,” all the ideal terrors of romance, were surpassed by the horrid realities before me. I several times endeavoured to collect my bewildered thoughts in contrasting my former and present state, but recoiled with horror from the task, and found that truth was indeed strange, 'stranger than fiction.”

From an English Magazine.

MEMORY OF THE BRAVE. They have not fled! They live in each drop of their country's tears, In each sorrow that melts, in each sigh that endears- The dead—— the glorious dead:

They have not pass'd away! Doth the perfume die with the faded flow'r? Doth gladness depart with the summer hour? Less sad less faded are they!

They were not meant for death, The spirits whose strength could pierce the tomb; They shall live in the days and the years to come, More strong than their parted breath!

Their home is their country's breast! In the songs which tell of their glorious deeds, In each hope that is nurtur'd, each anguish that bleeds, For a spirit and a zest.

They shall dwell by the household hearth! In the voices that peal from the sunny hills, In each pray'r that is breath'd, in each whisper that thrill The glorious of the earth!

They do but sleep not die! The life spark thrills in the dreamer's breast, And their spirit is freed from its mortal rest, But to borrow its hues from on high.

They shall be as a power and sway, To breathe the feelings of love and of might, On the patriot's gloom, and the lover's blight, Like the soul to the senseless clay.

And oh! more dear to the brave! The tears of the fair shall be shed o'er their tomb; And who for such praise would not envy their doom, And sigh for the patriot's grave?