University of Virginia Library


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MONODY ON THE DEATH OF LIEUTENANT GENERAL SIR JOHN MOORE.

“He was the mark and glass, copy and book,
“That fashioned others.”
Shakespeare.


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Scene, Corunna....Time, Evening Twilight.
What glitt'ring form sweeps hurried o'er the main,
And, hov'ring, ponders o'er yon dark champaign,
Where bleak Corunna's bleeding waste extends,
And war's red bolt from bursting clouds descends?
I know Thee now, by thy majestick charms;
Bright Island Goddess, Queen of arts and arms!
High on thy barque, alone, thou spurn'st the flood,
Which deluged nations still o'erwhelms with blood.
The foaming tempest, while it strikes thy shore,
Exalts thy flag, and bids thy forests roar.
Calm on the surge, thy fixed, unaltering eye
Surveys the storm that breaks against the sky;
O'er mountain waves, along the whirlwind's race,
It dares the journey of the blast to trace.
But now, alas! thy robes imperial flow,
In all the frantick negligence of woe;

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With burning bosom, o'er the darkling wave,
Thou com'st to kneel beside thy Warriour's grave;
Where sacred sleeps, in village turf enshrined,
That gallant form, which breathed a nation's mind.
Fame o'er his recent sod no statue rears,
But Victory writes his epitaph in tears!
Let Triumph weep! In Freedom's generous van
To die for glory, is to die for man;
The bleeding Patriot, with a seraph's eye,
Sees through each wound a passage to the sky.
Lamented Moore! how loved, how graced, wert Thou!
What air majestick dazzled on thy brow!
By genius raised, and by ambition fired,
To die distinguished, as to live admired;
In battle brilliant, as in council grave;
Stern to encounter, but humane to save;
Virtue and valour in thy bosom strove,
Which most should claim our homage or our love.
In thee they flowed without the pulse of art,
The throbbing life-blood of thy fervid heart;
While, warm from Nature, panting Honour drew
That vital instinct, Heaven imparts to few;
That pride of arms, which prompts the brave design,
That grace of soul, which makes the brave divine!
His heart elate, with modest valour bold,
Beat with fond rage, to vie with chiefs of old.
Great by resolve, yet by example warmed,
Himself the model of his glory formed.
A glowing trait from every chief he caught;
He paused like Fabius, and like Cesar fought.

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His ardent hope surveyed the heights of fame,
Deep on its rocks, to grave a soldier's name;
And o'er its cliffs to bid the banner wave,
A Briton fights, to conquer and to save.
On martial ground, the school of heroes' taught,
He studied battles, where campaigns were fought.
By science led, he traced each scene of fame,
Where war had left no stone without a name.
Hills, streams and plains bore one extended chart
Of warriors' deeds, and showed of arms the art.
The tactick canvass all its lore revealed,
The seize the moment, and dispose the field.
Here, still and desperate, near the midnight pass,
Couched ambush listened in the deep morass;
There, Skill, opposed by Fortune, shaped its way,
With prompt decision, and with firm array;
Here, paused the fight, and there the contest raved,
A squadron routed, or an empire saved!

It has been universally allowed, that the classical and military advantages of Sir John Moore's education were superiour to those of any modern English General. These great opportunities of improvement to his tactical intuition were afforded in the school of living history, on the scite of battles, marked with the vestiges of victory and defeat, of stratagem and fortune. The scenes, over which he dwelt with the fondest devotion, were those, which had formed the theatre of the wars of the illustrious Frederick; a hero, who, on one day could not place his foot on one inch of sand, which would own his impression as a master; and who, on on the next day, was the lord of an empire, and, by the fame of his talents, the awe, the astonishment and the admiration of Europe. The line of the poem above quoted alludes to the celebrated battle, which achieved this glorious event.

Had this distinguished military prince transmitted to the present incumbent on his throne that character and science of arms, which were so much admired, and so enthusiastically studied by Sir John, when he travelled under the tutelage of his father, with the Duke of Hamilton—the day, in which we live, would have been spared the shame to have witnessed the disgraceful and perfidious flight of Jena, nor would it have so painfully perceived the terrible distinction, between,

“A squadron routed, or an empire saved!”

But national hypocrisy, like the fraud of individuals, is always punished by a signal Providence. The affectation of sovereignty is but the shadow of power; and while the hundred arms of Briareus gave him the reputation of a Giant, yet this would have been but an empty proclamation of strength, had he not been inspired with the courage to lift even one of his fingers at his enemy.

“Has toties optata exegit Gloria pænas.”

Inspired on fields, with trophied interest graced,
He sighed for glory, where he mused from taste.
For high emprize his dazzling helm was plumed,
And all the polished patriot-hero bloomed.
Armed as he strode, his glorying country saw,
That fame was virtue, and ambition law;
In him beheld, with fond delight, conspire
Her Marlboro's fortune and her Sidney's fire.
Like Calvi's rock, with clefts abrupt deformed,
His path to fame toiled up the breach, he stormed;
Till o'er the clouds the victor chief was seen,
Sublime in terrour, and in height serene.

It has been the fate of Sir John Moore, a fate most severely unpropitious to the reputation and honour of some administrations of the British Cabinet, to be envied, opposed, checked, cramped and neglected, (durante potestate) from the first onset of his military life. His great talents, dauntless courage, commanding person, practical knowledge, gallant virtues, contempt of selfishness, inaccessibility to party, firmness in battle, and generosity to his army, and above all, his rapid and comprehensive foresight of the fears and the hopes of a jejunely projected expedition, and his own rejected map of an admirable campaign, which might, in all military and geographical calculation, have reduced the invaders of Spain to submission or flight, condemned him to the honourable neglect of the ministry, whom he despised. But this persecution had been practised before, and under the same influence. At the siege of Calvi, one of the mountainous, and the best fortified towns in Corsica, and to which the line in the Poem refers, Sir John was eminently distinguished. It was the last, and was deemed the impregnable strong hold of the Island. From the eminence of its rocks, and the danger of its access, it demanded a veteran and a hero in the art of war, to assault and reduce it to surrender. This exploit of skill and of honour Sir John undertook and performed; and this intrepid and scientifick General's services in Corsica were rewarded by the impolitick and calculating ingratitude of an invidious ministry.



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His equal mind so well could triumph greet,
He gave to conquest charms, that soothed defeat.
The battle done, his brow, with thought o'ercast,
Benign as mercy, smiled on perils past.
The death-choaked fosse, the battered wall, inspired
A sense, that sought him, from the field retired.
Suspiring pity touched that godlike heart,
To which no peril could dismay impart;
And melting pearls in that stern eye could shine,
That lightened courage down the thundering line.
So mounts the sea-bird in the Boreal sky,
And sits where steeps in beetling ruin lie;
Though warring whirlwinds curl the Norway seas,
And the rocks tremble, and the torrents freeze;
Yet is the fleece, by Beauty's bosom prest,
The down, that warms the storm-beat Eyder's breast;
Mid floods of frost, where Winter smites the deep,
Are fledged the plumes, on which the Graces sleep.
In vain thy cliffs, Hispania, lift the sky,
Where Cesar's eagles never dared to fly!
To rude and sudden arms while Freedom springs,
Napoleon's legions mount on bolder wings.
In vain thy sons their steely nerves oppose,
Bare to the rage of tempests and of foes;
In vain, with naked breast, the storm defy
Of furious battle, and of piercing sky;
Five waning reigns had marked in long decay,
The gloomy glory of thy setting day;
While bigot power, with dark and dire disgrace,
Oppressed the valour of thy gallant race.

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No martial phalanx, led by veteran art,
Combined thy vigour, or confirmed thy heart:
Thy bands dispersed, like Rome in wild defeat,
Fled to the mountains, to intrench retreat.

Rome was built on its own seven hills, which gave security to its glory, while its virtue remained. Yet its inhabitants, reared to habits of legionary discipline, and bold in their contempt of death, had not, for near five hundred years, any knowledge, either of the fosse and glacis of a city, or of the entrenchment and palisade of a camp. When stormed by Brennus, defeated by Pyrrhus, or overwhelmed by Hannibal, the citizens of Rome, despairing of its safety, fled either to the rock of the Capital, or to the mountains, which surrounded it. The Romans gained their first knowledge of intrenchment from the conquered camp of the Grecian hero, Pyrrhus.


O'er hill, or vale, where'er thy sky descends,
The pomp of hostile chivalry extends.
High o'er thy brow, the giant glaive is reared,
Deep in the wounds of bleeding nations smeared.
Ere Britain's shield could catch th' impending blade,
Thy helm was shattered, and thy arm dismayed.
Yet, while the faulchion fell, thy brave ally
Cheered, with a blaze of mail, thy closing eye;
By hosts assailed, her little Spartan band
Braved the swift onset, and the cool command.
Historick glory rushed through British veins,
And shades of Heroes stalked Corunna's plains;
While Gallia saw, amid the battle's glare,
That Minden, Blenheim, Agincourt, were there!
Loved as the sport, where erst, on Abraham's height,
Fate aimed her dart, as victory glanced her light:
Where bleeding Wolfe, with virtue's calmest pride,
Enjoyed the Patriot, while the Warriour died:
Firm, as the conflict, when the tumults roar
Rome's last great Hero woke on Egypt's shore;
When Abercrombie swelled the urn of fame,
And mixed his dust with Pompey's mighty name:
Bold, as the blast, which winged the blaze of war,
Round the rough rocks of trembling Trafalgar;

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When Nelson, lightening o'er the maddened wave,
Bade Ocean quake beneath his coral cave;
And, heavenward gazing, as his God retired,
Thundered in triumph, and in flames expired:
Illustrious Moore, by foe and famine prest,
Yet, by each soldier's proud affection blest,
Unawed by numbers, saw the impending host,
With front extending, lengthen down the coast.
“Charge! Britons, Charge!” the exulting chief exclaims,
Swift moves the field; the tide of armour flames;
On, on they rush, the solid column flies,
And shouts tremendous, as the foe defies.
While all the battle rung from side to side,
In death to conquer, was the warriour's pride.
Where'er the unequal war its tempest poured,
The leading meteor was his glittering sword!
Thrice met the fight; and thrice the vanquished Gaul
Found the firm line an adamantine wall.
Again repulsed, again the legions drew,
And fate's dark shafts in vollied shadows flew.
Now stormed the scene, where soul could soul attest,
Squadron to squadron joined, and breast to breast!
From rank to rank, the interpid valour glowed;
From rank to rank, the inspiring Champion rode.
Loud broke the war-cloud, as his charger sped;
Pale the curved lightening quivered o'er his head!
Again it bursts! Peal, echoing peal, succeeds!
The bolt is launched; the peerless Soldier bleeds!
Hark! as he falls, Fame's swelling clarion cries,
Britania triumphs, though her Hero dies!

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The grave, he fills, is all the realm she yields,
And that proud empire deathless honour shields.
No fabled Phœnix from his bier revives;
His ashes perish, but his Country lives!
Immortal Dead! with musing awe, thy foes
Tread not the hillock, where thy bones repose!
There, sacring mourner, see, Britania spreads
A chaplet, glistening with the tears she sheds;
With burning censer, glides around thy tomb,
And scatters incense, where thy laurels bloom;
With rapt devotion sainted vigil keeps;
Shines with Religion, and with Glory weeps;
With Grief exults, with Extacy deplores;
With Pride laments, and with despair adores!
Sweet sleep Thee, Brave! In solemn chaunt, shall sound
Celestial vespers, o'er thy sacred ground!
Long ages hence, in pious twilight seen,
Shall quires of seraphs sanctify thy green;
At curfew hour, shall dimly hover there,
And charm, with sweetest dirge, the listening air!
With homage tranced, shall every pensive mind
Weep, while the requiem passes on the wind;
Till, sadly swelling, Sorrow's softest notes,
It dies in distance, while its echo floats!
No stoneless sod shall hold that mighty shade,
Whose life could man's wide universe pervade.
No mould'ring prison of sepulchral earth,
In dumb oblivion, shall confine thy worth;
The battle heath shall lift thy marble fame,
And grow immortal, as it marks thy name.

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Heaven's holiest tears shall nightly kiss thy dust,
That dawn's first smiles may gem the hero's bust;
And pilgrim Glory, in remotest years,
Shall seek thy tomb, to read the tale, it bears.

EPITAPH.

“Stop, Ruin! stay thy scythe! here slumbers Moore;
“Whom Honour nurtured, and whom Virtue bore!
“A nation's hope, adored by all the brave;
“Heaven caught his soul, and Earth reveres his grave!
“Sublime, the Christian, and the Hero, trod;
“His Country all, he loved, and all, he feared his God!”