Fraternal France’s chosen bands
He of the stolen crown commands,
And on Alberche’s hither sands
Pitches his tents to-night:
While, Talavera’s wall between
And olive groves and gardens green,
Spain quarters on the right;
All scatter’d in the open air
In deep repose; save here and there,
Pondering to-morrow’s fight,
A spearman, in his midnight prayer,
Invokes our Blessed Lady’s care
And good Saint James’s might.
Thence to the left, across the plain
And on the neighbouring height,
The British bands, a watchful train,
Their wide and warded line maintain,
Fronting the east, as if to gain
The earliest glimpse of light.