The Burial of Sir John Moore. Woe to the lip to which this cup is held! The lip that's pall'd with every purer draught: For which alone the rifled grave can yield A goblet worthy to be deeply quaff'd. Strip, then, this glittering mockery from the skull, And seek a healing balm within the bowl, The Burial of Sir John Moore. N BY THE REV. C. WOLFE. OT a drum was heard-not a funeral note, Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot We buried him darkly, at dead of night, No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Nor in sheet nor in shroud we bound him, But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him. Few and short were the prayers we said, But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead, 333 We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er And we far away on the billow. Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, But half of our heavy task was done, When the clock told the hour for retiring; Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory: Now The War of the League. BY LORD MACAULAY. OW glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are! And glory to our sovereign liege, King Henry of Navarre! Now let there be the merry sound of music and of dance, Through thy corn-fields green and sunny vines, O pleasant land of France ! The War of the League. 335 And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the waters, Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning daugh ters. As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy, For cold, and stiff, and still are they who wrought thy walls annoy. Hurrah! hurrah! a single field hath turn'd the chance of war, Hurrah! hurrah! for Ivry, and King Henry of Navarre. Oh! how our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn of day, land! And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his hand; And, as we looked on them, we thought of Seine's empurpled flood, And good Coligni's hoary hair all dabbled with his blood; And we cried unto the living God, who rules the fate of war To fight for His own holy name, and Henry of Navarre. The king is come to marshal us, in all his armour drest, crest. He look'd upon his people, and a tear was in his eye; He look'd upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high. Right graciously he smiled on us, as roll'd from wing to wing, Down all our line, a deafening shout, "God save our lord the king," |