All tremble now, but not on all,
Poison’d with equal woe, shall fall
The shaft of destiny:--to some
The dreadful tale of ill shall come,
Not unallayed with good;
And they, with mingled grief and pride,
Shall hear that in the battle’s tide
Their darling soldier sank and died;--
Died as a soldier should!
But in the rough and stormy fray,
Many are doomed to death to-day,
Whose fate shall ne’er at home be told,
Whose very names the grave shall fold;
Many, for whose return, in vain
The wistful eye of love shall strain,
In vain parental fondness sigh,
In cruel hope that ne’er can die,
And filial sorrow mourn--
On Talavera’s plain they lie,
No! never to return!