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BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. — Wolfe.
Not a drum was heard, nor a funeral note,
As his corse to the rampart we hurried ; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O’er the grave where our hero was buried.
We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning, — By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.
No useless coffin inclosed his breast,
Nor in sheet, nor in shroud, we bound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
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.
We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed,
And smoothed down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his
head, And we far away on the billow!
Lightly they 'll talk of the spirit that 's gone, . And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him; But nothing he 'll reck, if they 'll let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.
THE TRAVELLER'S RETURN.
But half of our heavy task was done,
When the clock told the hour for retiring ;
That the foe was suddenly firing.
Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone,
But we left him alone in his glory.
THE TRAVELLER'S RETURN. - Southey.
Sweet to the morning traveller
The song amid the sky,
The skylark soars on high.
And cheering to the traveller
The gales that round him play,
Along his noontide way..
And when beneath the unclouded sun
Full wearily toils he,
A soothing melody.
And when the evening light decays,
And all is calm around,
In the distant sheep-bell's sound.
146 ADORATION OF THE DEITY IN THE MIDST OF HIS WORKS.
But, O, of all delightful sounds,
Of evening or of morn,
That welcomes his return.
ADORATION OF THE DEITY IN THE MIDST OF
HIS WORKS. – T. Moore.
The turf shall be my fragrant shrine,
My choir shall be the moonlit waves,
I'll seek by day some glade unknown,
Thy heaven, on which 't is bliss to look,
I'll read thy anger in the rock
There's nothing bright, above, below,
There 's nothing dark, below, above,
CHARADE. – By Praed.
Come from my First, ay, come!
Toll ye my Second, toll!
Call ye my Whole, ay,-call
Ay, call him by his name !
ANSWER. — Campbell.
WINTER. – Burns.
The wintry west extends his blast,
And hail and rain do blow;
The blinding sleet and snow ;
And roars from bank to brae ; And bird and beast in covert rest,
And pass the heartless day.
The sweeping blast, the sky o'ercast,
The joyless winter day,
Than all the pride of May;
My griefs it seems to join ;
Their fate resembles mine.
Thou Power Supreme, whose mighty scheme
These woes of mine fulfil;
Because they are Thy will!
This one request of mine!),
Assist me to resign.