A consultation with three other doctors, in addition to the two physicians in regular attendance, was now held; and they appeared to think the disease was changing from inflammatory diathesis to languid, and ordered stimulants to be administered.  Dr Bruno opposed this with the greatest warmth; and pointed out that the symptoms were those, not of an alteration in the disease, but of a fever flying to the brain, which was violently attacked by it; and, that the stimulants they proposed would kill more speedily than the disease itself.  While, on the other hand, by copious bleeding, and the medicines that had been taken before, he might still be saved.  The other physicians, however, were of a different opinion; and then Dr Bruno declared he would risk no farther responsibility.  Peruvian bark and wine were then administered.  After taking these stimulants, his Lordship expressed a wish to sleep.  His last words were, “I must sleep now”; and he composed himself accordingly, but never awoke again.

For four-and-twenty hours he continued in a state of lethargy, with the rattles occasionally in his throat.  At six o’clock in the morning of the 19th, Fletcher, who was watching by his bed-side, saw him open his eyes and then shut them, apparently without pain or moving hand or foot.  “My God!” exclaimed the faithful valet, “I fear his Lordship is gone.”  The doctors felt his pulse—it was so.

After life’s fitful fever he sleeps well.

But the fittest dirge is his own last lay, written on the day he completed his thirty-sixth year, soon after his arrival at Missolonghi, when his hopes of obtaining distinction in the Greek cause were, perhaps, brightest; and yet it breathes of dejection almost to boding.

’Tis time this heart should be unmoved
   Since others it has ceased to move,
Yet though I cannot be beloved
      Still let me love.

My days are in the yellow leaf,
   The flowers and fruits of love are gone,
The worm, the canker, and the grief
      Are mine alone.

The fire that in my bosom preys
   Is like to some volcanic isle,
No torch is kindled at its blaze—
      A funeral pile.

The hope, the fears, the jealous care,
   Th’ exalted portion of the pain,
And power of love I cannot share,
      But wear the chain.

But ’tis not here—it is not here—
   Such thoughts should shake my soul; nor now
Where glory seals the hero’s bier,
      Or binds his brow.

The sword, the banner, and the field,
   Glory and Greece around us see;
The Spartan borne upon his shield
      Was not more free.

Awake! not Greece—she is awake—
   Awake my spirit! think through whom
My life-blood tastes its parent lake,
      And then strike home!

I tread reviving passions down,
   Unworthy manhood!  Unto thee
Indifferent should the smile or frown
      Of beauty be.

If thou regrett’st thy youth, why live?
   The land of honourable death
Is here, up to the field and give
      Away thy breath.