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"WHO WOULD BE DOOMED TO GAZE UPON A SKY WITHOUT A CLOUD OR SUN?"-BYRON.

NO WORDS SUFFICE THE SECRET SOUL TO SHOW,

NIGHT BEFORE THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO. 197

And wild and high the "Cameron's Gathering" rose,
The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills

Have heard and heard, too, have her Saxon foes:
How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills
Savage and shrill! But with the breath which fills
Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers
With the fierce native daring which instils
The stirring memory of a thousand years,

And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's ears.

And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves,
Dewy with Nature's tear-drops as they pass,
Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves,
Over the unreturning brave-alas!

Ere evening to be trodden like the grass
Which now beneath them, but above shall grow
In its next verdure, when this fiery mass

Of living valour, rolling on the foe,

And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low!

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life—
Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay;
The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife—
The morn,
the marshalling in arms-the day,

Battle's magnificently-stern array!

The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which, when rent,
The earth is covered thick with other clay,
Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent,
Rider and horse-friend, foe-in one red burial blent !

[GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON. From "Childe Harold," Canto III.,
stanzas xxi. to xxviii.]

FOR TRUTH DENIES ALL ELOQUENCE TO WOE."-BYRON.

"THE MIND THAT BROODS O'ER GUILTY WOES IS LIKE THE SCORPION, GIRT BY FIRE."-BYRON.

"FREEDOM'S BATTLE, ONCE BEGUN, THOUGH BAFFLED OFT, IS EVER WON."-LORD BYRON.

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THE BEINGS OF THE MIND ARE NOT OF CLAY."-LORD BYRON.

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.*

JOT 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 sod with our bayonets turning ;
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin. enclosed 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 that was 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 ;

* The battle of Corunna was fought between the British under Sir John
Moore, and the French under Soult, January 16, 1809.
The victory
remained with the former; but their gallant leader was mortally wounded,
and buried at midnight on the ramparts of Corunna. As no coffin could be
procured, the body was simply wrapped in a military cloak and blankets.

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MAN THOU PENDULUM BETWIXT A SMILE AND TEAR."-BYRON.

"DEVOTION WAFTS THE MIND ABOVE; BUT HEAVEN ITSELF DESCENDS IN LOVE."-LORD BYRON.

"HONEY FROM SILK-WORMS WHO CAN GATHER, OR SILK FROM THE YELLOW-BEE?"-P. b. Shelley.

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THE GOOD WANT POWER BUT TO WEEP BARREN TEARS."-SHELLEY.

TO THE NIGHT.

199

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, and we raised not a stone-

But we left him alone with his glory.

[Rev. CHARLES WOLFE, born at Dublin 1791, died 1823, owes his fame to this one brief but touchingly-beautiful composition, of which any poet might have been proud. Some of Wolfe's other lyrics, however, are characterized by intense pathos and great power of expression. He died of consumption, hastened by incessant clerical labour, in his thirty-third

year.]

"THE MOVELESS PILLAR OF A MOUNTAIN'S WEIGHT IS ACTIVE, LIVING SPIRIT."-P. B. SHELLEY.

TO THE NIGHT.

WIFTLY walk over the western wave,
Spirit of Night!

Out of the misty Eastern cave,
Where all the long and lone daylight
Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear,
Which make thee terrible and dear-
Swift be thy flight!

Wrap thy form in a mantle gray,
Star-inwrought;

Blind with thine hair the eyes of day,

Kiss her until she is wearied out;

"YOUTH'S SMOOTH OCEAN, SMILING TO BETRAY."-SHELI EY.

"BENEFITS AND MEEK SUBMISSION TAME THE FIERCEST AND THE MIGHTIEST."-P. B. SHELLEY.

Then wander o'er city, and sea, and land,
Touching all with thine opiate wand-
Come, long-sought!

When I arose and saw the dawn,
I sighed for thee;

When light rode high, and the dew was gone,
And noon lay heavy on flower and tree,
And the weary day turned to his rest,
Lingering like an unloved guest,
I sighed for thee.

Thy brother Death came, and cried,

Would'st thou me?

Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed,

Murmured like a noon-tide bee,

"THE GHASTLY PEOPLE OF THE REALM OF DREAM."-SHELLEY.

200

"NECESSITY! THOU MOTHER OF THE WORLD."-SHELLEY.

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"SPEECH CREATED THOUGHT, WHICH IS THE MEASURE OF THE UNIVERSE."-PERCY B. SHELLEY.

66

THE FOUNTAINS MINGLE WITH THE RIVER ;"-(SHELLEY)

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[PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY, 1792-1824, author of "Queen Mab," "Hellas," the tragedy of "The Cenci," "Rosalind and Helen," "AlasAdonais, an elegy in memory of the poet Keats," and numerous other works, all displaying a wonderful wealth of imagination and an apparently boundless command of richly poetic language.]

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"THE HARMONIOUS MIND POURS ITSELF FORTH IN ALL-PROPHETIC SONG."-PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.

"THERE ARE DEEDS WHICH HAVE NO FORM, SUFFERINGS WHICH HAVE NO TONGUE."-p. b.

SHELLEY.

THE CLOUD.

BRING fresh showers for the thirsting flowers,
From the seas and the streams;

I bear light shades for the leaves when laid
In their noonday dreams.

From my wings are shaken the dews that waken
The sweet buds every one,

When rocked to rest on their mother's breast,
As she dances about the sun.

I wield the flail of the flashing hail,
And whiten the green plains under ;
And then again I dissolve it in rain,
And laugh as I pass in thunder.

I sift the snow on the mountains below,
And their great pines grown aghast ;

"" AND THE RIVERS WITH THE OCEAN."-SHELLEY.

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