In front of Talavera’s wall,
And near the confluent streams, the Gaul
His royal banner rears to sight,
With all the borrow’d blazon bright
Of Leon and Castille;
And seems to meditate a fight
That Spain alone shall feel.
Oh, vain pretence! to Wellesley’s eyes,
As pervious as the air!
He knows, that while the red cross flies,
From the strong covert, where she lies
Entrench’d and shelter’d, Spain defies
The utmost France can dare--
That Britain, on her blood-stain’d hill,
The brunt of fight must bear--
And France, though baffled thrice, will still
Strain all her force, exhaust her skill,
To plant her eagles there;
Which soon, from that commanding height
Would speed their desolating flight,
And, sweeping o’er the scatter’d plain,
The hopes of England and of Spain
With iron talon tear.