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.

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 e; 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;

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!

The grave, he fills, is all the realm she yields,
And that proud empire deathless honour shields.
No fabled Phoenix 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.

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!"

NOTES.

NOTE 1.

"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!”