Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corse to the rampart we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O’er the grave where our hero was buried.
We buried him darkly at dead of the night,
The sods with our bayonets turning,
By the struggling moonbeams’ misty light
And the lantern dimly burning.
No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
Nor in sheet nor in shroud we bound him,
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him.
Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow,
But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
PLYMOUTH DOCK, _January 28, 1809_.
EVER DEAREST FATHER--You will not be very sorry to hear of my
arrival in England in good health, but, on the other hand, I have
not a penny that I know of, nor a shirt nearer than Lisbon.
I shall come up to London without delay, find out where you are,
and endeavour to spend some time amongst you, to lay down my head,
and settle my affairs.
The man I looked up to as a god, and held in the most cordial
respect and affection, after devoting his life to the service of
his country, is praised by some and blamed by others.
I know the latter to be the ignorant, but consequently the most
talkative, and your catchpenny Generals come forward and tell you
how they could have done better. All this makes me sick, and cools
my military ardour. For can the utmost blindness of self-love
make me think I can ever equal the virtues or military worth of
Moore! And yet, as the result of his laborious services, a doubt
comes in every man’s mind whether he would now take upon himself
that General’s reputation. When dying, though perfectly sensible,
he had great difficulty at last to articulate. He said gently,
however, that he had endeavoured to serve his country diligently
and conscientiously, and he hoped it would be satisfied with what
he had done. His latest anxiety seemed to be for victory. “_Are
they beat? Are they beat?_” he repeatedly asked. He wished to send
some message to General Hope, who had succeeded him in the command.
“Hope, Hope,” he said at intervals, but could not articulate more.
His last words were, “Tell my mother.” He could no longer speak,
and expired. Was not this the death of a hero and a good man? God
bless you.--Your CHARLES.
The loss of men and money in Spain, I think, are amply compensated for
by the acquisition of military fame, but the loss of Sir John Moore at
such a time admits of no consolation.
BATH, _January 28, 1809_.
DEAREST MOTHER--The press on the road, the waters, etc., have made
me travel slower, but I set off for London to-morrow, whence you
shall hear from me.
We are three Engineers here together, one of whom is my friend
Lefebure, the pleasantest and right-thinkingest man in the world.
The people here show distinction to our rusty habits, particularly
the fair sex, who advance to converse with us, to the astonishment
of the well-dressed beaux.
I hope soon to embrace you and my Louisa, and all of you. God bless
you, dear people.