The Burial of Sir John Moore.

Woe to the lip to which this cup is held!

The lip that's pall'd with every purer draught: For which alone the rifled grave can yield

A goblet worthy to be deeply quaff'd.

Strip, then, this glittering mockery from the skull,
Restore the relic to its tomb again;

And seek a healing balm within the bowl,
The blessed bowl that never flow'd in vain.

The Burial of Sir John Moore.

N

BY THE REV. C. WOLFE.

OT a drum was heard-not a funeral note,
While his corse to the ramparts 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,
By the struggling moonbeams' misty light,
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;

But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

333

We thought, as we hollow'd 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 !
But nothing 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 told the hour for retiring;
And we heard the distant and random gun
Of the enemy sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame fresh and gory:
We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone,
But we left him alone with his glory.

Now

The War of the League.

BY LORD MACAULAY.

OW glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are!

And glory to our sovereign liege, King Henry of Navarre! Now let there be the merry sound of music and of dance, Through thy corn-fields green and sunny vines, O pleasant land of France !

The War of the League.

335

And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the

waters,

Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning daugh

ters.

As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy,

For cold, and stiff, and still are they who wrought thy walls

annoy.

Hurrah! hurrah! a single field hath turn'd the chance of

war,

Hurrah! hurrah! for Ivry, and King Henry of Navarre.

Oh! how our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn of day,
We saw the army of the League drawn out in long array;
With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers,
And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Egmont's Flemish spears.
There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses of our

land!

And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his hand;

And, as we looked on them, we thought of Seine's empurpled flood,

And good Coligni's hoary hair all dabbled with his blood; And we cried unto the living God, who rules the fate of war To fight for His own holy name, and Henry of Navarre.

The king is come to marshal us, in all his armour drest,
And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant

crest.

He look'd upon his people, and a tear was in his eye;

He look'd upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high.

Right graciously he smiled on us, as roll'd from wing to wing, Down all our line, a deafening shout, "God save our lord

the king,"