This was the only approach to a complaint which passed those patient lips. But the strength of which he spoke was that of the indomitable will, not of the shattered body; for already life was ebbing fast, and the shadows were closing around.
Yet surely for him, beyond the shadows, waited a Light Divine!
He met the last enemy as he had met his earthly foes, as indeed he had ofttimes faced the former, with unshaken composure and without dread, no more startled by the summons than if he had been called upon to cross the English Channel. And, as always, his thoughts were for others, not for himself.
Some grateful words were addressed to the surgeons, thanking them for their efforts to give him ease. He spoke kindly to two more aides-de-camp who came in. One of these was Captain James Stanhope, brother to Charles Stanhope killed that day, and to Lady Hester Stanhope, Moore's friend. Stanhope's eyes met those of the dying soldier, and Moore said distinctly—
"Stanhope—remember me to your sister."
This was his last utterance. He sank into silence, pressing the hand of Anderson closely to his side. A few minutes later, calmly and without a struggle, the grand spirit triumphed over death and passed away.
And in that still chamber might be heard the sounds of smothered convulsive weeping. The younger officers present broke utterly down, while the elder men looked on with bowed heads, scarcely better able to restrain their anguish; and Roy's sobs mingled with those of the rest.
It was a scene that he could never in all his after life forget. Colonel Anderson still knelt, supporting the lifeless head, and gazing with parted lips into that quiet face, which for twenty-one years had been the centre and the illumination of his being; his look of woe beyond the power of words to describe. On the other side of the mattress, one in sorrow with all these mourning Englishmen, was the faithful and devoted Francois. French by birth, he cared for little in the world besides this idolised master, over whom he despairingly hung, his hands clasped together, his face matching in pallor those placid features.
For one of the noblest of men was gone from their midst that hour; and a heavy shadow fell upon the victorious British Army.
"Dark lay the field of slain; the battle's strife was o'er,
That shook Coruña's hills, and rent the Iberian shore;
Dim twilight veiled the scene of glory and of death,
Till o'er the blood-stained snow
The moon, pale, trembling, slow,
Revealed each crimson wreath."
"Low on the victor-field the Warrior Chief was laid;
His eye still sought the foe, his hand still grasped the blade;
Triumphant was his smile, though dim his closing eye—
While bending o'er the slain,
His mournful gallant train
Learnt how the brave should die."
* * * * * * * *
"No sculptured trophy rose to deck his honoured head,
Or monumental urn, to mark the Mighty Dead;
No lettered scroll to point the pilgrim soldier's way—
The musing foe to greet,
And guide his wandering feet
To where the warrior lay."
"But o'er his loved remains were choicest honours shed,
Tears such as Heroes weep bedewed his lowly bed;
A deep responsive sigh from Albion's woe-struck isle
Swelled o'er the Atlantic wave,
And decked his early grave—
Who for his Country fought, who for his Country fell!" ¹