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THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. Not a drum was heard nor a funeral note,
As his corse o’er the rampart we hurried, Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot,
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.
We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sod with our bayonets turning,
And our lantern dimly burning.
No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
Nor in sheet nor in shroud we bound him, But like a warrior taking his rest,
His martial cloak wrapt around him.
Few and short were the prayers we said,
We spoke not a word of sorrow,
And bitterly thought of the morrow.
We thought as we hollowed his narrow bed,
And smooth'd down his lowly pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,
And we, far away o'er the billow.
Lightly they'll speak of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him;
Not the half of our heavy task was done,
When the bell toll'd the hour for retiring,
That the foe was then suddenly tiring.
Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
From the field of his fame, fresh and gory,
But left him alone-with his glory.
THE SAILOR-BOY'S DREAM.
But, watch worn and weary, his cares flew away,
He dreamt of his home, of his dear native bow'rs, And pleasures that waited on life's merry morn;
While Mem'ry stood sideways, half cover'd with flowini, And displayed ev'ry rose, but secreted its thorn.
Then fancy her magical pinions spread wide, And bade the young dreamer in ecstacy rise,
Now far, far behind him the green waters glide, And the cot of his forefathers blesses his eyes:
The jessamine clambers, in flow'r, o'er the chatch, And the swallow sings sweet from her nest in the wall,
All trembling with transport, he raises the latch, And the voices of lov'd ones reply to his call;
A Father bends o'er him with looks of delight
And the lips of the boy in a love-kiss unite
The heart of the sleeper beats high in his breast,
And a murmur of happiness steals through his resi « Kind fate thou hast blest me I ask for no more.”
Ah! whence is that fiame which now bursts on his ey Ah! what is that sound which now larums his ear?
'Tis the lightning's red glare painting hell on the sky,« . 'Tis the crashing of thunders, the groan of the sphere.
He springs from his hammock-he flies to the deck, Amazement confronts him with images dire;
Wild winds and waves drive the vessel a wreck,
Like mountains the billows tremendously swell:
Oh! sailor-boy, woe to thy dream of delight, La darkness dissolves the gay frost-work of bliss.
Where now is the picture that Fancy touch'd bright Thy parents' fond pressure, and love's honied kiss?
Oh, sailor-boy! sailor-boy! never again
Unblest and unhonor'd, down deep in the main,
No tomb shall e'er plead to remembrance for thee, Or redeem form or fame from the merciless surge;
But the white foam of waves shall thy winding sheet be, And winds in the midnight of winter thy dirge;
On beds of green sea now'rs thy limbs shall be laid, Around thy white bones the red coral shall grow;
Of thy fair yellow locks threads of amber be made; And ev'ry part suit to thy mansion below.
Days, months, years, and ages shall circle away,
Earth loses thy pattern for ever and aye:
ANGLING. The south wind is breathing most sweetly to-day, The sunshine is veil'd in a mantle of gray, The Spring rains are past, and the streams leap along, Not brimming nor shrunken, with sparkle and song; 'Tis the month lov'd by anglerstis beautiful June Away then, away then, to bright Callikoon!
A narrow wild path through the forest is here,
The blackberry blossoms are scattered like snow.
We break from the tree-groups; à glade deep with grana;
We pass the still shallowa plunge at our side
But here, where the trunk stretches half o’er the brook,
The voice of the rapid now burthens the air,
The spider has ceas’d his slight furrow to show;
THE COUNTRY CLERGYMAN. Near yonder copse, where once the garden smil'd, And still where many a garden flower grows wild; There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, The village preacher's modest mansion rose. A man he was, to all the country dear, And passing rich with forty pounds a year; Remote from towns he ran his godly race, Nor e'er had chang'd nor wished to change his place: Unpractic'd he to fawn or seek for power, By doctrines fashion’d to the varying hour; Far other aims his heart had learn'd to prize, More skill'd to raise the wretched than to rise ; His house was known to all the vagrant train, He chid their wand'rings but reliev'd their pain : The long remember'd beggar was his guest, Whose beard descending swept his aged breast; The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud, Claim'd kindred there, and had his claim allow'd; The broken soldier kindly bade to stay, Sat by his fire and talk'd the night away, Wept o'er his wounds, or tales of sorrow done, Shoulder'd his crutch, and shew'd how fields were won. Pleas'd with his guests, the good man learn'd to glow, And quite forgot their vices in their woe; Careless their merits, or their faults to scan, His pity gave 'ere charity began: Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, And even his failings lean’d to virtue's side; But in his duty prompt at every call, He watch'd and wept, he felt and pray'd for all; And, as a bird each fond endearment tries, To tempt its new fledg'd offspring to the skies; He try'd each art, reprov'd each dull delay, Allur’d to brighter worlds and led the way.
Beside the bed where parting life was laid, And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismay'd, The reverend champion stood, at his control, Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul;