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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 lautern 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,
Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word in sorrow;
And we bitterly thought on the morrow.
We thought^ as we hollowed his narrow bed,
And siuooth'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 Ilia cold ashes upbraid him,
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.
But half of our heavy task was done,
And we heard by the distant and random gui),
Slowly and sadly we laid hnn down,
From the field of his fame fresh and gory: Wc carved not a line, we raised not a stone,
But we left him alone with his glory.
Sir John Moore, was killed by a cannon shot in the moment of victory, at the battle of ("ornnna, Jan. 11th, 1809.—He was buried the same night on the ramparts of the Citadel of Coronna, a few hours before the British Troops embarked.—
ON THE EXECUTION OF GENERAL LACY,
© 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,
© mark not the awe-striking site of his grave
But there let him lie in his greatness alone,
With the adamant rock for his pillow,
That comes from the shore stricken tallow.
There winds that know none bnt Almighty controul
Shall rage in delighted commotion,
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 Hie Seventh, he engaged in a conspiracy against the King, for which he was shot in 1817.
I ON THE DEATH OF SIR PETER PARKER, BART. R. N.
THERE is a tear for all that die,
But nations swell the funeral cry,
For them is sorrow's purest sigh
In vain their bones unburied lie,
A tomb is theirs on every page,
An epitaph on every tongue: The present hours, the future age,
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
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
And early valour, glowing, find
But there are breasts that bleed with thee
And shuddering hear of victory,
Where shall they turn to mourn thee less i
Time cannot teach forgetfnlness,
While Grief's full heart is fed by Fame.
Alas! for them, though not for thee,
They cannot choose but weep die more; Deep for the dead the grief must be '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 Bellaire, in North America, Sir Peter Parker received his death-wound and expired in a few minutes after.—August 3oth, 1814.
LAMENT, In allusion to the Loves of our regretted Princess Charlotte and Prince Leopold,
Ey 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 yonth! thou hast lost the best blossom
That England could give thee to wear!
Ah! softly its leaves nestled there!
Where never its sweets can decay;
To keep it from withering away.