Thus roll’d the short yet lingering night
Its clouds o’er hill and dale;
But when the morning show’d in light
The wreck of that tempestuous fight
Scatter’d along the vale;
Still seated on her trophied height,
Britain exulted at the sight,
And France’s cheek grew pale.
Lords of the field, the victors view
Ten gallant French the turf bestrew
For every Briton slain:
They view, with not unmingled pride;
Some anxious thoughts their souls divide--
Their throbbing hopes restrain;
Hundreds beneath their arm have died,
But myriads still remain:
A sterner strife must yet be tried,
A more tempestuous day decide
The wavering fates of Spain.