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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,
By the trembling moon-beams' misty light,

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,
But steadfastly gaz'd on the face of the dead,

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;
But little be'll reck if they let him sleep on
In the grave where his comrades have laid him.

Not the half of our heavy task was done,

When the bell toll'd the hour for retiring,
And we knew by the distant random gun,

That the foe was then suddenly tiring.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame, fresh and gory,
We carv'd not a line, we raised not a stone,

But left him alone-with his glory.

In slumbers of midnight the sailor-boy lay,
His hammock swung loose at the sport of the wind:

But, watch worn and weary, his cares flew away,
And visions of happiness danc'd o'er his mind.

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
His cheek is impearl'd with a mother's warm tear;

And the lips of the boy in a love-kiss unite
With the lips of the maid whom his bosom holds dear.

The heart of the sleeper beats high in his breast,
Joy quickens his pulse---all his hardships seem o'er,

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,
The masts fly in splinters, the shrouds are on fire.

Like mountains the billows tremendously swell:
In vain the lost wretch calls on Mercy to save,
· Unseen hands of spirits are ringing his knell,
And the death-angel flaps his broad wing o'er the wara

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
Shall home, love, or kindred thy wishes repay!

Unblest and unhonor'd, down deep in the main,
Full many a score fathom thy frame shall decay:

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,
And still the vast waters above thee shall roll,

Earth loses thy pattern for ever and aye:
Oh, sailor-boy! sailor-boy!-peace to thy soul!

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,
With light tiny hoof-prints, the trail of the deer!
Beside and above us, what splendor of green!
The eye can scarce pierce the dense branches between.
How lightly this moss-hillock yields to the foot!
How gnarl'd is yon bough, and how twisted that root I
What white and pink clusters the laurel hangs out,
The air one deep hum from the bees all about!
The chesnut-'tis gala day with her-behold
Her leaves nearly cover'd with plumage of gold!
· Whilst thick in the depths of the coverts below,

The blackberry blossoms are scattered like snow.
High up, the brown thresher is tuning her lay,
The red crested woodpecker hammers away,
The caw of the crow echoes hoarse from the tops,
The horn of the locust swells shrilly and stops,
While knots of bright butterflies flutter around,
And seeks the strip'd squirrel his cave in the ground.

We break from the tree-groups; à glade deep with grana;
The white clover's breath loads the sense as we pass,
A sparkle—a streak-a broad glitter is seen
The bright Callikoon through its thickets of green!
We rush to the banks-its sweet music we hear,
Its gush, dash and gurgle all blent to the ear,
No shadows are drawn by the cloud cover'd sun,
We plunge in the crystal, our sport is begun;
Our line where that ripple shoots onward, we throw,
It sweeps to the foam-spangled eddy below,
A tremor-a pull the trout upward is thrown,
He swings to our basket-the prize is our own.

We pass the still shallowa plunge at our side
The dive of the muskrat, its terror to hide;
A clamor is heard, spots are darting from sight-
The duck with her brood speeding on in affright;
A rush--the quick water-snipe cleaving the air
We pass the still shallows-our prey is not there.

But here, where the trunk stretches half o’er the brook,
And slumbers the pool in a leaf-shadow'd nook,
Where eddies are dimpling and circling away,
Steal genlly, for here lies the king of our prey.
Throw stilly-il greater the sound meets his ear
Than the burst of a bubble, you strike him with fear:
How cautious his touch of the death-hiding bait,
The rod now is trenibling; wait! patiently wait!
A pull-raise your line, yet most gently-twill bring
The credulous victim more sure to his spring,
A jerk, and the angle is bent to its length,
Play the line from the reel or 'twill break with his strength!
He darts round in foam, but his vigor is past,
Draw steadily to you—you'll have him at last!
Raise up, but beware that strong struggle and gasp,
And the noble snar'd creature is filling your grasp.
How bright with the water-gloss glitters the pride,
of his brown clouded back, red and gold spotted side!
But we leave the reft scene of the dead monarch's reign
Like a despot that moves on to triumph again.

The voice of the rapid now burthens the air,
Approach, for our prey's crowded city is there!
Here whirlpools, there eddies, here stillness, there foam,
We ply well our further we roam;
Our baskets we fill, but our muscles are tired,
And a shade in the sky tells that day has expired;
The robin has chanted his vespers and down;
The frog from the creek has commenc'd his trombone;

The spider has ceas’d his slight furrow to show;
The brown sprawling shrimp seeks the pebbles below
The bank then we clamber, our home-path resume,
The torch-bearing fire-fly to lighten the gloom,
And dreams of our sleep-fetter'd pillow restore
Our day-sport, distorted but pleasing, once more.

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;

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