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Arm and up-the morning beam
Hath called the rustic to his team,
Hath called the falconer to the lake,
Hath called the huntsman to the brake ;

SOLDIER, REST.

The early student ponders o'er
His dusty tomes 1 of ancient lore.
Soldier, wake !-thy harvest, fame :
Thy study, conquest ; war, thy game.
Shield, that would be foeman's terror,
Still should gleam the morning's mirror.
Poor hire repays the rustic's pain ;
More paltry still the sportsman's gain.
Vainest of all, the student's theme
Ends in some metaphysic dream :
Yet each is up, and each has toiled
Since first the peep of dawn has smiled ;
And each is eagerer in his aim
Than he who barters life for fame.
Up, up, and arm thee, son of terror!
Be thy bright shield the morning's mirror.

Scott. 1 Tomes, volumes.

SOLDIER, REST. Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,

Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking : Dream of battle-fields no more

Days of danger, nights of waking. In our isle’s enchanted hall

Hands unseen thy couch are strewing,
Fairy strains of music fall,

Every sense in slumber dewing.
Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,
Dream of fighting-fields no more :
Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking,
Morn of toil, nor night of waking.
No rude sound shall reach thine ear,

Armour's clang, or war-steed champing,
Trump nor pibroch summon here
Mustering clan, or squadron tramping.

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Ruder sounds shall none be near,
Guards nor warders challenge here,
Here's no war-steed's neigh and champing,
Shouting clans or squadrons stamping.

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THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. Not a drum was heard, not a funeral-note,

"As his corse to the ramparts 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,
By the struggling moonbeams' misty light,

And the lantern dimly burning.

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.

35

No useless coffin inclosed his breast,

Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound 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;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead,

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-
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on

In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our heavy task was done,

When the clock struck the hour for retiring ; And we heard the distant and random gun

That the foe was sullenly 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.

Wolfe.

1 Sir John Moore. This brave general

was born in 1761. He entered the army in his fifteenth year-distinguished himself in Egypt and the

West Indies-was contmander-inchief during a part of the Peninsular War-fell, in the moment of victory, at Coruña, Jan. 17, 1809.

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