O'er Judah's land thy rainbow, Lord, shall beam, Thy vengeance gave us to the stranger's hand, Envying our fathers in their peaceful graves. The born in sorrow shall bring forth in joy; Yet, ere he die, to Salem's streets shall come. Where, o'er the cherub-seated God, full blazed th' irradiate dome. WOLFE. THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. Not a drum was heard, not 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 we buried. We buried him darkly at dead of night, No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him. Few and short were the prayers we said, We thought as we hollowed his narrow bed, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, But half of our heavy task was done, When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly 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 with his glory! STANZAS. If I had thought thou couldst have died, I might not weep for thee; But I forgot when by thy side, That thou couldst mortal be: It never through my mind had past, And I on thee should look my last, And still upon that face I look, And still the thought I will not brook, But when I speak, thou dost not say, And now I feel, as well I may, If thou wouldst stay, e'en as thou art, I still might press thy silent heart, And where thy smiles have been! While e'en thy chill, bleak corse I have, Thou seemest still mine own; And there I lay thee in thy grave- |