Classic Poem

Crossing in unexampled enterprise
This great and perilous stream, the English host
Effected here their landing, on the day
When Soult from Porto with his troops was driven
No sight so joyful ever had been seen
From Douro's banks, — not when the mountains sent
Their generous produce down, or homeward fleets
Entered from distant seas their port desired;
Nor e'er were shouts of such glad mariners
So gladly heard, as then the cannon's peal,
And short, sharp strokes of frequent musketry,
By the delivered habitants that hour.
For they who, beaten then and routed, fled
Before victorious England, in their day
Of triumph, had, like fiends let loose from hell,
Fill'd yon devoted city with all forms
Of horror, all unutterable crimes;
And vengeance now had reach'd the inhuman race
Accurs'd. Oh, what a scene did Night behold
Within those rescued walls, when festal fires,
And torches, blazing through the bloody streets,
Stream'd their broad light where horse and man in death
Unheeded lay outstretch'd! Eyes which had wept
In bitterness so long, shed tears of joy,
And from the broken heart thanksgiving, mix'd
With anguish, rose to Heaven. Sir Arthur then
Might feel how precious in a righteous cause
Is victory, how divine the soldier's meed
When grateful nations bless the avenging sword!