« 前へ次へ »
Arm and up-the morning beam
The early student ponders o'er
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,
Every sense in slumber dewing.
Armour's clang, or war-steed champing,
Ruder sounds shall none be near,
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,
And the lantern dimly burning.
THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.
No useless coffin inclosed his breast,
Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound 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 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.
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.