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Thy picture! It is life,_health_love,
that cheek, Those lips which even in fancy move
Which fancy teaches even to speak. Oh! I have hung so long at night,
O’er thy still 'semblance, charmed from pain, That I have thought the living light
Came beaming from those eyes again!
In my dark heart thy image glows,
In shape and light divinely fair ;-
And faithful memory placed it there.
In loneliness 'tis ne'er forgot,-
Reproach me not !-Reproach me not !
The girls with laughing faces,
THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE,
WHO FELL AT THE BATTLE OF CORUNNA.
Not a drum was heard, nor a funeral note,
As his corse 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,
And the lantern dimly burning.
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,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
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 ;
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.
But half of our heavy task was done,
When the clock tolled the hour for retiring ; And we heard, by 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,—we raised not a stone,
But left him alone in his glory. Blackwood's Magazine.
BY THE REV, GEORGE CROLY.
BENEATH the shelter of a mighty hill,
Whose marble peaks were garlanded with vine, And musical with many a sunny rill,
That thro' its purple, clustered shades did twine, Bright as a summer serpent's golden spine,
Leaned a low temple, in the sweet, grey gloom, Hoary with moss, like Age in calm decline. With, here and there, a rose's lingering bloom, Wreathed loving round its brow ;~that temple is a tomb !
There sleeps the Mantuan! There the subtlest hand
That ever wakened Passion's lyre, is laid. Oh! Master-genius of thy glorious Land !
When—when shall Italy her tresses braid
When flash to Heaven the ancient sword of Rome ?
Look not upon the slave; sleep, Virgil, in thy tomb !
BY THE REV. GEORGE CROLY.
THERE is a radiance in the sky,
It is a lovely hour !—Though heaven
But there are sounds along the gale,-
The flutes breathe nigh,—the portals now
Upon its mountain summit spread,
Swift rise,-swift set,-be bright--and done. Literary Gazette.
BY LORD BYRON.
They fell devoted, but undying ;
Where life is lost or freedom won.