1847. The sunshine of their native sky Smiles sadly on them here, And kindred eyes and hearts watch by Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead! No impious footstep here shall tread Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone When many a vanished age hath flown, 80 88 Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight, Shall dim one ray of glory's light That gilds your deathless tomb. 96 Theodore O'Hara. THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE AFTER CORUNNA Nor a drum was heard, not a funeral note, 4 We buried him darkly at dead of night, No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Not in sheet or 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, And we spoke not a word of sorrow; But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, And we bitterly thought of the morrow. We thought as we hollow'd his narrow bed, And we far away on the billow! 8 12 16 20 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. 28 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. 32 1817. Charles Wolfe. CORONACH From The Lady of the Lake He is gone on the mountain, When our need was the sorest. From the raindrops shall borrow, But to us comes no cheering, To Duncan no morrow! The hand of the reaper Takes the ears that are hoary, Waft the leaves that are serest, But our flower was in flushing, Fleet foot on the correi, Sage counsel in cumber, Red hand in the foray, 8 16 1810. Like the dew on the mountain, Like the foam on the river, Thou art gone; and for ever! Sir Walter Scott. 1746. 24 ODE WRITTEN IN 1745 How sleep the brave who sink to rest, By fairy hands their knell is rung; William Collins. MAGNOLIA CEMETERY Sung at Charleston, S. C., over the SLEEP Sweetly in your humble graves, 6 12 4 In seeds of laurel in the earth The blossom of your fame is blown, And somewhere, waiting for its birth, The shaft is in the stone! Meanwhile, behalf the tardy years Which keep in trust your storied tombs, Behold! your sisters bring their tears, And these memorial blooms. Small tributes! but your shades will smile More proudly on these wreaths to-day, Than when some cannon-moulded pile Shall overlook this bay. Stoop, angels, hither from the skies! 1867. Henry Timrod. A LYKE-WAKE DIRGE THIS ae nighte, this ae nighte, Fire and sleet and candle-lighte, When thou from hence away art past, To Whinny-muir thou com'st at last; 8 12 16 20 8 |