ページの画像
PDF
ePub

When those words were heard Yet on the rose's humble bed
That poor little bird

The sweetest dews of night are shed, Was so changed in a moment, 't was As if she wept the waste to see, really absurd :

But none shall weep a tear for me!
He grew sleek and fat;
In addition to that,

My life is like the autumn leaf, A fresh crop of feathers came thick as a That trembles in the moon's pale ray, mat!

Its hold is frail, its date is brief';
His tail waggled more

Restless, and soon to pass away!
Even than before ;

Yet, ere that leaf shall fall and fade, But no longer it wagged with an impu- The parent tree will mourn its shade, dent air,

The winds bewail the leatless tree,
No longer he perched on the Cardinal's But none shall breathe a sigh for me!

chair.
He hopped now about

My life is like the prints which feet
With a gait devout;

Have left on Tampa's desert strand; At matins, at vespers, he never was out; Soon as the rising tide shall beat, And, so far from any more pilfering deeds, All trace will vanish from the sand; He always seemed telling the Confessor's Yet, as if grieving to efface beads.

All vestige of the human race, If any one lied, or if any one swore,

On that lone shore loud moans the sea, Or slumbered in prayer-time and hap. But none, alas ! shall mourn for me!

pened to snore, That good Jackdaw

Woulil give a great “Caw!" As much as to say, “Don't do so any more!"

CHARLES WOLFE. While many remarked, as his manners they saw,

(1791 – 1823.)
That they never had known such a
pious Jackdaw!"

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.
He long lived the pride
Of that country side,

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, And at last in the odor of sanctity died; As his corse to the rampart we hurried ; When, as words were too faint

Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot His merits to paint,

O'er the grave where our hero we buried. The Conclave determined to make him a Saint.

We buried him darkly at dead of night, And on newly made Saints and Popes, The sods with our bayonets turning; as you know,

By the struggling moonbeams' misty light, It's the custom at Rome new names to And the lantern dimly burning.

bestow, So they canonized him by the name of No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Jem Crow!

Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound

him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,

With his martial cloak around him. RICHARD HENRY WILDE.

Few and short were the prayers we said, [U. S. A., 1789-1847.]

And we spoke not a word of sorrow;

But we steadfastly gazed on the face that MY LIFE IS LIKE THE SUMMER ROSE.

was dead,

And we bitterly thought of the morrow. My life is like the summer rose

That opens to the morning sky, We thought, as we hollowed his narrow But ere the shades of evening close

bed, Is scattered on the ground) — to die. And smoothed down his lonely pillow,

[graphic]

When those words were heard Yet on the rose's humble bed
That poor little bird

The sweetest dews of night are shed, Was so changed in a moment, 't was As if she wept the waste to see, really absurd:

But none shall weep a tear for me!
He grew sleek and fat;
In addition to that,

My life is like the autumn leaf, A fresh crop of feathers came thick as a That trembles in the moon's pale ray; mat!

Its hold is frail, its date is brief;
His tail waggled more

Restless, and soon to pass away!
Even than before;

Yet, ere that leaf shall fall and fade, But no longer it wagged with an impu- The parent tree will mourn its shade, dent air,

The winds bewail the leatless tree, No longer he perched on the Cardinal's But none shall breathe a sigh for me!

chair. He hopped now about

My life is like the prints which feet With a gait devout;

Have left on Tarupa's desert strand; At matins, at vespers, he never was out; Soon as the rising tide shall beat, And, so far from any more pilfering deeds, All trace will vanish from the sand; He always seemed telling the Confessor's Yet, as if grieving to etlace beads.

All vestige of the human race, If any one lied, or if any one swore,

On that lone shore loud moans the sea, Or slumbered in prayer-tiine and hap. But none, alas! shall mourn for me!

pened to snore, That good Jackdaw

Would give a great “Caw!". As much as to say, “Don't do so any more!”

CHARLES WOLFE. While many remarked, as his manners they saw,

(1791 - 1823.) That they “never had known such a pious Jackdaw!"

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. He long lived the pride Of that country side,

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, And at last in the odor of sanctity died; As his corse to the rampart we hurried;

When, as words were too faint Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot His merits to paint,

O'er the grave where our hero we buried. The Conclave determined to make him a Saint.

We buried him darkly at dead of night, And on newly made Saints and Popes, The sods with our bayonets turning; as you know,

By the struggling moonbeams' misty light, It's the custom at Rome new names to And the lantern dimly burning.

bestow, So they canonized him by the name of No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Jem Crow!

Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound

him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,

With his martial cloak around him. RICHARD HENRY WILDE.

Few and short were the prayers we said, (U. S. A., 1789 - 1847.]

And we spoke not a word of sorrow;

But we steadfastly gazed on the face that MY LIFE IS LIKE THE SUMMER ROSE. was dead,

And we bitterly thought of the morrow. My life is like the summer rose

That opens to the morning sky, We thought, as we hollowed his narrow But ere the shades of evening close

bed, Is scattered on the ground – to die. And smoothed down his lonely pillow,

[graphic]

Page 152 “ NOT A DRUM WAS HEARD, NOT A FUNERAL NOTE.".

« 前へ次へ »