Sailed for the Fleet off Vigo, deucidly sea-sick was told that fat pork was the best specific, if bolted half raw; did not find it much of a tonic passed a terrible night, and for four hours of it obliged to keep watch, more dead than alive. The very second evening we were at sea, it came on to blow, and the night fell very dark, with heavy rain. Towards eight bells in the middle watch, I was standing on a gun well forward on the starboard side, listening to the groaning of the main-tack, as the swelling sail, the foot of which stretched transversely right athwart the ship’s deck in a black arch, struggled to tear it up, like some dark impalpable spirit of the air striving to burst the chains that held him, and escape high up into the murky clouds, or a giant labouring to uproot an oak, and wondering in my innocence how hempen cord could brook such strain when just as the long waited-for strokes of the bell sounded gladly in mine ear, and the shrill clear note of the whistle of the boatswain’s mate had been followed by his gruff voice, grumbling hoarsely through the gale, “Larboard watch, ahoy!” The look-out at the weather gangway, who had been relieved, and beside whom I had been standing a moment before, stepped past me, and scrambled up on the booms “Hillo, Howard, where away, my man?” said I. “Only to fetch my”-- Crack!--the main tack parted, and up flew the sail with a thundering flap, loud as the report of a cannon-shot, through which, however, I could distinctly hear a heavy smash, as the large and ponderous blocks at the clew of the sail struck the doomed sailor under the ear, and whirled him off the booms over the fore-yard-arm into the sea, where he perished, as heaving-to was impossible, and useless if practicable, as his head must have been smashed to atoms. This is one of the stray plums of the trifle, what follows is a whisk of the froth, written when we looked into Corunna, about a week after the embarkation of the army:-- MONODY ON THE DEATH OF SIR JOHN MOORE. Farewell, thou pillar of the war, Warm-hearted soldier, Moore, farewell, In honour’s firmament a star, As bright as ere in glory fell. Deceived by weak or wicked men, How gallantly thou stood’st at bay, Like lion hunted to his den, Let France tell, on that bloody day. No boastful splendour round thy bier, No blazon’d trophies o’er thy grave; But thou had’st more, the soldier’s tear, The heart-warm offering of the brave. On Lusitania’s rock-girt coast, All coffinless thy relics lie, Where all but honour bright was lost, Yet thy example shall not die. Albeit no funeral knell was rung, Nor o’er thy tomb in mournful wreath The laurel twined with cypress hung, Still shall it live while Britons breathe. What though, when thou wert lowly laid, Instead of all the pomp of woe, The volley o’er thy bloody bed Was thunder’d by an envious foe:--