BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. Wolfe. Nor a drum was heard, nor a funeral note, We buried him darkly at dead of night, No useless coffin inclosed his breast, Nor in sheet, nor in shroud, we bound 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, And we far away on the billow! Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that 's gone, But nothing he'll reck, if they'll let him sleep on But half of our heavy task was done, When the clock told the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was suddenly 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 in his glory. THE TRAVELLER'S RETURN.- Southey. SWEET to the morning traveller And cheering to the traveller The gales that round him play, And when beneath the unclouded sun Full wearily toils he, The flowing water makes to him A soothing melody. And when the evening light decays, There is sweet music to his ear, 146 ADORATION OF THE DEITY IN THE MIDST OF HIS WORKS. But, O, of all delightful sounds, ADORATION OF THE DEITY IN THE MIDST OF HIS WORKS. T. Moore. THE turf shall be my fragrant shrine, My choir shall be the moonlit waves, Even more than music, breathes of Thee. I'll seek by day some glade unknown, Thy heaven, on which 't is bliss to look, I'll read thy anger in the rock Of sunny brightness breaking through! There's nothing bright, above, below, There's nothing dark, below, above, COME from my First, ay, come! And the screaming trump and thundering drum Fight, as Fall, as thy father fought! thy father fell! Thy task is taught, thy shroud is wrought; So on ward - and farewell. Toll ye my Second, toll! Fling wide the flambeau's light, With the wreath upon his head, Let the So prayer be said, and the tear be shed; take him to his rest! ay,-call Call ye my Whole,- Ay, call him by his name! To light the flame of a soldier's fame ANSWER. ! Campbell. THE wintry west extends his blast, Or the stormy north sends driving forth While tumbling brown, the burn comes down, The sweeping blast, the sky o'ercast, Let others fear, to me more dear Than all the pride of May; The tempest's howl, it soothes my soul, My griefs it seems to join; The leafless trees my fancy please, Their fate resembles mine. Thou Power Supreme, whose mighty scheme These woes of mine fulfil; Here, firm, I rest, they must be best, Because they are Thy will! Then all I want (O, do Thou grant This one request of mine!), Since to enjoy Thou dost deny, |