Classic Poem

Four months Massena had his quarters here,
When by those lines deterr'd where Wellington
Defied the power of France, but loath to leave
Rich Lisbon yet unsack'd, he kept his ground,
Till from impending famine, and the force
Array'd in front, and that consuming war
Which still the faithful nation, day and night,
And at all hours, was waging on his rear,
He saw no safety, save in swift retreat.
Then of his purpose frustrated, this child
Of Hell—so fitlier than of Victory call'd—
Gave his own devilish nature scope, and let
His devilish army loose. The mournful rolls
That chronicle the guilt of human-kind,
Tell not of aught more hideous than the deeds
With which this monster and his kindred troops
Track'd their inhuman way—all cruelties,
All forms of horror, all deliberate crimes,
Which tongue abhors to utter, ear to hear,
Let this memorial bear Massena's name
For everlasting infamy inscribed.