When those words were heard That poor little bird Yet on the rose's humble bed Was so changed in a moment, 't was As if she wept the waste to see, really absurd: He grew sleek and fat; In addition to that, A fresh crop of feathers came thick as a mat! His tail waggled more But no longer it wagged with an impudent air, No longer he perched on the Cardinal's chair. He hopped now about With a gait devout; At matins, at vespers, he never was out; If any one lied, or if any one swore, As much as to say, "Don't do so any more!" While many remarked, as his manners they saw, That they "never had known such a pious Jackdaw!" He long lived the pride And at last in the odor of sanctity died; His merits to paint, The Conclave determined to make him a Saint. And on newly made Saints and Popes, as you know, It's the custom at Rome new names to bestow, But none shall weep a tear for me! My life is like the autumn leaf, Restless, and soon to pass away! My life is like the prints which feet Have left on Tampa's desert strand; Soon as the rising tide shall beat, All trace will vanish from the sand; Yet, as if grieving to efface All vestige of the human race, On that lone shore loud moans the sea, But none, alas! shall mourn for me! CHARLES WOLFE. (1791-1823.] THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. NOT a drum was heard, not 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, So they canonized him by the name of No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Jem Crow! RICHARD HENRY WILDE. [U. S. A., 1789-1847.] MY LIFE IS LIKE THE SUMMER ROSE. My life is like the summer rose Is scattered on the ground to die. 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 that was dead, And we bitterly thought of the morrow. We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed, And smoothed down his lonely pillow, When those words were heard That poor little bird Yet on the rose's humble bed Was so changed in a moment, 't was As if she wept the waste to see, really absurd: He grew sleek and fat; In addition to that, A fresh crop of feathers came thick as a mat! His tail waggled more But no longer it wagged with an impudent air, No longer he perched on the Cardinal's chair. He hopped now about With a gait devout; At matins, at vespers, he never was out; And, so far from any more pilfering deeds, He always seemed telling the Confessor's The Conclave determined to make him a Saint. And on newly made Saints and Popes, as you know, It's the custom at Rome new names to bestow, But none shall weep a tear for me! My life is like the autumn leaf, Restless, and soon to pass away! Yet, ere that leaf shall fall and fade, The parent tree will mourn its shade, The winds bewail the leafless tree, But none shall breathe a sigh for me! My life is like the prints which feet Have left on Tampa's desert strand; Soon as the rising tide shall beat, All trace will vanish from the sand; Yet, as if grieving to efface All vestige of the human race, CHARLES WOLFE. [1791-1823.] THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. NOT a drum was heard, not 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, So they canonized him by the name of No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Jem Crow! RICHARD HENRY WILDE. [U. S. A., 1789-1847.] MY LIFE IS LIKE THE SUMMER ROSE. My life is like the summer rose Is scattered on the ground to die. 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 that was dead, And we bitterly thought of the morrow. We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed, And smoothed down his lonely pillow, |