This is one of the stray plums of the trifle, what follows is a whisk of
the froth, written when we looked into Corunna, about a week after the
embarkation of the army:--
MONODY ON THE DEATH OF SIR JOHN MOORE.
Farewell, thou pillar of the war,
Warm--hearted soldier, Moore, farewell,
In honour's firmament a star,
As bright as ere in glory fell.
Deceived by weak or wicked men,
How gallantly thou stood'st at bay,
Like lion hunted to his den,
Let France tell, on that bloody day.
No boastful splendour round thy bier,
No blazon'd trophies o'er thy grave;
But thou had'st more, the soldier's tear,
The heart--warm offering of the brave.
On Lusitania's rock--girt coast,
All coffinless thy relics lie,
Where all but honour bright was lost,
Yet thy example shall not die.
Albeit no funeral knell was rung,
Nor o'er thy tomb in mournful wreath
The laurel twined with cypress hung,
Still shall it live while Britons breathe.
What though, when thou wert lowly laid,
Instead of all the pomp of woe,
The volley o'er thy bloody bed
Was thunder'd by an envious foe:--
Inspired by it in after time,
A race of heroes will appear,
The glory of Britannia's clime,
To emulate thy bright career.
And there will be, of martial fire,
Those who all danger will endure;
Their first, best aim, but to aspire
To die thy death--the death of Moore.
To return. On the evening of the second day, we were off Falmouth, and
then got a slant of wind that enabled us to lie our course.
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