With his martial cloak around him.
Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow,
But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
Plymouth Dock, January 28, 1809.
Ever dearest Father—You will not be very sorry to hear of my arrival in England in good health, but, on the other hand, I have not a penny that I know of, nor a shirt nearer than Lisbon.
I shall come up to London without delay, find out where you are, and endeavour to spend some time amongst you, to lay down my head, and settle my affairs.
The man I looked up to as a god, and held in the most cordial respect and affection, after devoting his life to the service of his country, is praised by some and blamed by others.
I know the latter to be the ignorant, but consequently the most talkative, and your catchpenny Generals come forward and tell you how they could have done better. All this makes me sick, and cools my military ardour. For can the utmost blindness of self-love make me think I can ever equal the virtues or military worth of Moore! And yet, as the result of his laborious services, a doubt comes in every man’s mind whether he would now take upon himself that General’s reputation. When dying, though perfectly sensible, he had great difficulty at last to articulate. He said gently, however, that he had endeavoured to serve his country diligently and conscientiously, and he hoped it would be satisfied with what he had done. His latest anxiety seemed to be for victory. “Are they beat? Are they beat?” he repeatedly asked. He wished to send some message to General Hope, who had succeeded him in the command. “Hope, Hope,” he said at intervals, but could not articulate more. His last words were, “Tell my mother.” He could no longer speak, and expired. Was not this the death of a hero and a good man? God bless you.—Your Charles.