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Through dark and dread Eternity
Returns again to me,
ON THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE,
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 was 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 por 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 in sorrow;
And we bitterly thought on the morrow.
We thouglit, as we hollowed his narrow bed,
And smooth'd 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 toll’d 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 we left him alone with his glory.
Sir John Moore, was killed by a eannon shot in the moment of victory, at the battle of Corunna, Jan. 11th, 1809.--He was buried the same night on the ramparts of the Citadel of Corunna, a few bours before the British Troops embarked.-
ON THE EXECUTION OF GENERAL LACY,
O MOURN not the hero with pitiful sorrow,
Or sully his mem'ry by weeping;
From hearts that in glory are sleeping!
His injuries stamp'd on the souls of the brave,
Their free-born emotions to cherish,
With symbols that ever can perish!
But there let him lie in his greatness alone,
With the adamant rock for bis pillow,
That comes from the shore stricken billow.
There winds that know none but Almighty controul
Shall rage in delighted comniotion,
As free as the masterless ocean.
His name they shall carry to regions accurst,
The stillness of slavery breaking;
From nations in glory awaking.
General Lacy, much distinguished himself as a Patriot General during the Spanish Campaigns. After the restoration of Ferdinand the Seventh, he engaged in a conspiracy against the King, for which he was shot in 1817.
ON THE DEATH OF SIR PETER PARKER, BART. R. N.
THERE is a tear for all that die,
A mourner o'er the humblest grave;
And Triumph weeps above the brave.
For them is sorrow's purest sigh
O'er Ocean's heaving bosom sent:
All earth becomes their monument!
A tomb is theirs on every page,
An epitaph on every tongue:
For them bewail, to them belong.
For them the voice of festal mirth
Grows hushed, their name the only sound; While deep remembrance pours to worth
The goblet's tributary round.
A theme to crouds that knew them not,
Lamented by admiring foes,
Who would not die the death they chose?
And, gallant Parker! thus enshrined
Thy life, thy fall, thy fame shall be; And early valour, glowing, find
A model in thy memory.
But there are breasts that bleed with thee
In woe, that glory cannot quell; And shuddering hear of victory,
Where one so dear, so dauntless, fell.
Where shall they turn to mourn thee less
When cease to hear thy cherished name? Time cannot teach forgetfulness,
While Grief's full heart is fed by Fame,
Alas! for them, though not for thee,
They cannot choose but weep the more;
Who ne'er gave cause to mourn before.
At the head of a party of seamen and whilst cheering them on to the attack of the enemies works at Beliaire, in North America, Sir Peter Parker received his death-wound and expired in a few minutes afier.-Augast Soth, 1814.
LAMENT, In allusion to the Loves of our regretted Princess Charlotte and Prince Leopold,
By an Officer of her own Regiment.
The bright light of joy was around them
Their love seem'd the pure gift of heaven! So fondly, so firmly it bound them,
None thought that such bonds could be riven: But alas, it is broken! and sorrow
Now shades where the bright light has shone, And the sun that shall rise on the morrow
Shall mock the fair sun that is gone!
Fond youth! thou hast lost the best blossom
That England could give thee to wear! 'Twas torn by the wind from thy boson
Ah! softly its leaves nestled there!
Where never its sweets can decay;
To keep it from withering away.