Poems (Mitford)/To the Memory of Sir John Moore

by Mary Russell Mitford

to the MEMORY OF SIR JOHN MOORE.

Who has not felt exulting rapture's glow
For England's triumph o'er her haughty foe?
Who has not wept for England's gallant train,
The slaughter'd victims of degen'rate Spain?
Of ev'ry aid, of hope itself bereft,
Their firmness and their valor only left,
Let yon ensanguin'd plain their triumph tell;
Too dearly purchas'd—for their leader fell!

 In victory's arms thus Abercrombie died?
Thus Nelson bled, our sorrow and our pride;
Still Britain mourns stern fate's relentless doom,
And 'twines the hero's laurels round his tomb.

 Lamented chieftain! thy well-skill'd command
From sure destruction sav'd thy faithful band;
'Twas thine with them each painful toil to share,
'Twas thine alone the mental pangs to bear,
When warring elements against thee rose,
Before thee treach'rous friends—behind thee foes.
And when at length Corunna's tow'rs appear'd,
And English vessels their proud ensigns rear'd,
Twas thine to see thy bold pursuers fly—
Nobly to conquer—undismay'd to die.
Thy parting words to filial duty giv'n;
And thy last thought to England and to Heav'n.

 No tawdry scutcheons hang around thy tomb,
No venal mourners wave the sable plume;
No statues rise to mark the sacred spot,
Nor pealing organ swells the solemn note.
A hurried grave thy soldiers' hands prepare,
Thy soldiers' hands the mournful burthen bear;
The vaulted sky, to earth's extremest verge,
Thy canopy; the cannons' roar thy dirge.
Affection's sorrows dew thy lowly bier,
And weeping valor sanctifies the tear.