THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE
AT CORUNNA, 1809.

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corpse 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,
The sods with our bayonets turning;
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Not 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,
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.

F

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 little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on,
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

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!

Wolfe.

IT IS NOT THE TEAR.

It is not the tear at this moment shed,

When the cold turf has just been laid o'er him,

That can tell how beloved was the friend that's

fled,

Or how deep in our hearts we deplore him. 'Tis the tear, through many a long day wept, 'Tis life's whole path o'ershaded;

'Tis the one remembrance, fondly kept, When all lighter griefs have faded.

Thus, his memory, like some holy light

Kept alive in our hearts, will improve them, For worth shall look fairer, and truth more bright,

When we think how he lived but to love

them.

And, as fresher flowers the sod perfume,

Where buried saints are lying,

So our hearts shall borrow a sweetening bloom, From the image he left there in dying!

Moore.

THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER.

'Tis the last rose of summer
Left blooming alone;
All her lovely companions
Are faded and gone ;
No flower of her kindred,
No rose-bud is nigh,
To reflect back her blushes,

Or give sigh for sigh.

I'll not leave thee, thou lone one!

To pine on the stem; Since the lovely are sleeping,

Go, sleep thou with them.

Thus kindly I scatter

Thy leaves o'er the bed Where thy mates of the garden Lie scentless and dead.

So soon may I follow,

When friendships decay,

And from Love's shining circle
The gems drop away.

When true hearts lie withered,

And fond ones are flown,

O! who would inhabit

This bleak world alone?

Moore.

OFT IN THE STILLY NIGHT.

Oft in the stilly night,

Ere Slumber's chain has bound me, Fond Memory brings the light

Of other days around me;

The smiles, the tears,

Of boyhood's years,

The words of love then spoken;

The eyes that shone,

Now dimmed and gone,

The cheerful hearts now broken!

Thus, in the stilly night,

Ere Slumber's chain has bound me,

Sad Memory brings the light

Of other days around me.

When I remember all

The friends, so linked together,

I've seen around me fall,

Like leaves in wintry weather,