SIR JOHN MOORE. General Sir John Moore was the son of Dr. John Moore, the author of Zeluco, and of several other excellent novels. General Moore was killed at Corunna, in Spain, January, 1808. He was sent into Spain by the British government, at the head of a large military force, in order to assist the Spaniards against the French. At that period Ferdinand II., king of Spain, was a prisoner in France, and Joseph Bonaparte, a brother of the Emporor Napoleon, was the "intrusive king" of the country. Bonaparte had resolved to establish his family in Spain, and the English government intended to defend what they call legitimate power-meaning by this, the continued authority of European sovereigns, whose ancestors have governed before them. The English, upon this principle, sent an army to expel the French from Spain; but that army was forced to leave Spain without accomplishing their purpose. General Moore was a man of great courage and military skill, and his want of success in this enterprise was owing to circumstances which he could not control. When he was about to embark his troops, in order to return to England, he was overtaken by the French general, Marshal Soult, and a battle took place between them. "The attack was made by the French on the 16th January, in heavy columns, and with their usual vivacity; but it was sustained and repelled on all hands. The gallant general was mortally wounded in the action, just as he called on the 42d Highland regiment to remember Egypt,' and reminded the same brave mountaineers that though ammunition was scarce, 'they had their bayonets !' "Thus died on the field of victory, which atoned for previous misfortunes, one of the bravest and best officers of the British army. His body was wrapped in his military cloak, instead of the usual vestments of the tomb it was deposited in a grave hastily dug on the ramparts of Corunna; and the army completing its embarkation on the subsequent day, their late general was left alone with his glory.'' Charles Wolfe, the author of the verses on the interment of Sir John Moore, was born in Dublin in 1791. His family was highly respectable, and numbers among its names the distinguished one of the conqueror of Quebec. His classical education was received in the University of Dublin. In 1817, Mr. Wolfe was ordained to the Protestant Episcopal ministry, and appointed to a remote country curacy in the north of Ireland. His last place of residence was the Cove of Cork, where he died of consumption on the 21st of February, 1823, in the thirty-second year of his age. Mr. Wolfe took the subject of his ode from the following passage in the Edinburgh Annual Register. "Sir John Moore had often said, that if he was killed in battle, he wished to be buried where he fell. The body was removed at midnight to the citadel of Corunna. A grave was dug for him on the rampart there, by a party of the 9th regiment, the aidesdu-camp attending by turns. No coffin could be procured, and the officers of his staff wrapped the body, dressed as it was, in a military cloak and blankets. The interment was hastened; for, about eight in the morning, some firing was heard, and the officers feared that if a serious attack were made, they should be ordered away, and not suffered to pay him their last duty. The officers of his family bore him to the grave; the funeral service was read by the chaplain; and the corpse was covered with, earth."―Edinburgh Annual Register, 1808. Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, We buried him darkly at-dead of night, No useless coffin enclosed his breast, 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 hollowed his narrow bed, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on But half of our heavy task was done, Slowly and sad we laid him down From the field of his fame fresh and gory, COWPER. Born 1731-Died 1800. The Biographers of Cowper are fond of tracing his origin to nobles, and even to kings. "His mother was descended" says the poet's relative, the reverend Mr. Johnson, "by four different lines from Henry the Third, king of England." Cowper says of himself, 66 My boast is not that I deduce my birth From loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth, But higher far my proud pretension rise." The proud pretentions thus asserted by this truly humble man were the merits of his excellent parents, but we shall exalt these pretentions above every other consideration should we refer them to himself alone. To him "Whose virtues formed the magic of his song," whose genius was so informed by piety and goodness, so devoted to the contemplation of God and his works, that he has left one of the most lovely examples upon record of what a high and holy gift the talent of the true poet is. The first extract from his works which shall be inserted here, is his own sketch of the poetical character, which, however, is limited to the peculiar moral character of the poet without touching upon the excursive and inventive powers of his imagination, of which Shakspeare says, "The Poet's eye in a fine phrenzy rolling Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven. And, as imagination bodies forth, The forms of things unseen, the poet's pen THE POET. The mind that feels indeed the fire Along the nerve of every feeling line. The strings are swept with such a power, so loud Before the keen inquiry of her thought, A terrible sagacity informs The Poet's heart, he looks to distant storms, And darts his soul into the dawning plan. Hence, in a Roman mouth, the graceful name CRAZY KATE. There often wanders one, whom better days At what a sailor suffers; fancy too, And dream of transports she was not to know. And hoards them in her sleeve; but needful food, A TALE. In Scotland's realm forlorn and bare, The spring drew near, each felt a breast They paired, and would have built a nest, The heaths uncovered, and the moors, Long time a breeding-place they sought, A ship! could such a restless thing Or was the merchant charged to bring |