Albuera

Xerxes, when the Three Hundred he beheld
Who drove his myriads, broke his tented pride,
And with Leonidas at Pylae died,
With venerating awe his heart was quelled.
Philip, thy stern breast 'gainst itself rebelled
At Chaeronea, as thy victor stride
Passed by the Theban band; who, side by side,
Like brothers fell, nor one his comrades knelled.
Does not the dread Napoleon think of these,
These "sons of glory, these sure heirs of fame,"
At Albuera who have left a name,
True Spaniards, which oblivion ne'er shall seize?
Glory to them eternity decrees:
Does not his inmost heart revere their hallowed flame?