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144 BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE,

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 enclosed 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.

But half of our heavy task was done,
When the clock told the hour for retiring;

And we heard the distant and random gun
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,

Where, twinkling in the dewy light,
The skylark soars on high.

And cheering to the traveller
The gales that round him play,

When faint and heavily he drags
Along his noontide way.

And when beneath the unclouded sun
Full wearily toils he,

The flowing water makes to him
A soothing melody.

And when the evening light decays,
And all is calm around,

There is sweet music to his ear
In the distant sheep-bell's sound.

146 ADORATION OF DEITY IN THE MIDST OF HIS works.

But, O, of all delightful sounds,
Of evening or of morn,

The sweetest is the voice of love
That welcomes his return.

ADORATION OF THE DEITY IN THE MIDST OF HIS WORKS. — T. Moore.

THE turf shall be my fragrant shrine,
My temple, Lord! that arch of thine;
My censer's breath the mountain airs,
And silent thoughts my only prayers.

My choir shall be the moonlit waves,
When murmuring homeward to their caves,
Or when the stillness of the sea,
Even more than music, breathes of Thee.

I’ll seek by day some glade unknown,
All light and silence, like thy throne
And the pale stars shall be, at night,
The only eyes that watch my rite.

Thy heaven, on which 'tis bliss to look,
Shall be my pure and shining book,
Where I shall read, in words of flame,
The glories of thy wondrous name.

I’ll read thy anger in the rock
That clouds a while the day-beam's track,
Thy mercy in the azure hue
Of sunny brightness breaking through

There's nothing bright, above, below,
From flowers that bloom to stars that glow
But in its light my soul can see
Some feature of the Deity.

There's nothing dark, below, above,
But in its gloom I trace thy love,
And meekly wait that moment when
Thy touch shall turn all bright again.

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CoME from my First, ay, come !
For the battle-hour is nigh:
And the screaming trump and thundering drum
Are calling thee to die!
Fight, as thy father fought !
Fall, as thy father fell!
Thy task is taught, thy shroud is wrought; —
So — onward — and farewell.

Toll ye my Second, toll!
Fling wide the flambeau's light,
And sing the hymn for a parted soul
Beneath the silent night.
With the wreath upon his head,
And the cross upon his breast,
Let the prayer be said, and the tear be shed; —
So — take him to his rest

Call ye my Whole, – ay, — call
The lord of lute and lay !
And let him greet the sable pall
With a noble song to-day !

L

l 4S WINTER.

Ay, call him by his name !
Nor fitter hand may crave
To light the flame of a soldier's fame
On the turf of a soldier's grave
ANSWER. — Campbell,

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THE wintry west extends his blast,
And hail and rain do blow;
Or the stormy north sends driving forth
The blinding sleet and snow;
While tumbling brown, the burn comes down,
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,
Let others fear, – to me more dear
Than all the pride of May;
The tempest's howl, it soothes my soul,
My griefs it seems to join;
The leafless trees my fancy please,
Their fate resembles mine.

Thou Power Supreme, whose mighty scheme
These woes of mine fulfil ;

Here, firm, I rest, — they must be best,
Because they are Thy will !

Then all I want, (0, do Thou grant
This one request of mine !)

Since to enjoy Thou dost deny,
Assist me to resign.

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