From "Monody on the Death of Sir John Moore"

His heart elate, with modest valour bold,
Beat with fond rage to vie with chiefs of old.
Great by resolve, yet by example warm'd,
Himself the model of his glory form'd.
A glowing trait from every chief he caught:
He paused like Fabitjs, and like Cesar fought.
His ardent hope survey'd 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
Inspired on fields, with trophied interest graced,
He sigh'd for glory, where he mused from taste.
For high emprise his dazzling helm was plumed,
And all the polish'd patriot-hero bloom'd.
Arm'd as he strode, his glorying country saw
That fame was virtue, and ambition law;
In him beheld, with fond delight, conspire
Her Marlborough's fortune and her Sidney's fire.
Like Calvi's rock, with clefts abrupt deform'd,
His path to fame toil'd up the breach he storm'd;
Till o'er the clouds the victor chief was seen,
Sublime in terror, and in height serene.
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-choked fosse, the batter'd wall, inspired
A sense, that sought him, from the field retired.
Suspiring Pity touch'd that godlike heart,
To which no peril could dismay impart;
And melting pearls in that stern eye could shine,
That lighten'd 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 press'd,
The down that warms the storm-beat eider'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,
Oppress'd the valour of thy gallant race.
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 entrench retreat
Illustrious Moohe, by foe and famine press'd,
Yet by each soldier's proud affection bless'd,
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 warrior's pride.
Where'er the war its unequal tempest pour'd,
The leading meteor was his glittering sword!
Thrice met the fight, and thrice the vanquish'd Gaul
Found the firm line an adamantine wall.
Again repulsed, again the legions drew,
And Fate's dark shafts in volley'd shadows flew.
Now storm'd the scene where soul could soul attest,
Squadron to squadron join'd, and breast to breast;
From rank to rank the intrepid valour glow'd,
From rank to rank the inspiring champion rode
Loud broke the war-cloud, as his charger sped;
Pale the curved lightning quiver'd o'er his head;
Again it bursts; peal, echoing peal, succeeds;
The bolt is launch' d; the peerless soldier bleeds!
Hark! as he falls, Fame's swelling clarion cries,
"Britannia triumphs, though her hero dies!"
The grave he fills is all the realm she yields,
And that proud empire deathless honor 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, Britannia 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!
Sweet sleep the brave! in solemn chant shall sound
Celestial vespers o'er thy sacred ground!
Long ages hence, in pious twilight seen,
Shall choirs of seraphs sanctify thy green;
At curfew-hour shall dimly hover there,
And charm, with sweetest dirge, (he 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!