THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.

OT a drum was heard, nor a funeral note,

As his corse to the ramparts we hurried;
But 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 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 in 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 ;

But nothing he'll reck if they let him sleep on
In the grave where the Briton has laid him.

But half of our heavy task was done

When the clock told the hour for retiring; And we heard by the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing.

The Heart of Bruce in Melrose Abbey.

Slowly and softly 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 in his glory.

WOLFE.

43

THE HEART OF BRUCE IN MELROSE ABBEY.

EART! that didst press forward still,*
Where the trumpet's note rang shrill,

Where the knightly swords were crossing,

And the plumes like sea-foam tossing,

Leader of the charging spear,

Fiery heart!-and liest thou here?

May this narrow spot inurn

Aught that could so beat and burn?

Heart! that lovedst the clarion's blast,

Silent is thy place at last ;

Silent-save when early bird

Sings where once the moss was heard;

Silent-save when breeze's moan
Comes through flowers or fretted stone;
And the wild-rose waves around thee,
And the long dark grass hath bound thee,
-Sleepst thou as the swain might sleep,
In his nameless valley deep.

* "Now pass thou forward, as thou art wont, and Douglas will follow thee or die!" With these words Douglas threw from him the heart of Bruce into mid-battle against the Moors of Spain.

No, brave heart! though cold and lone,
Kingly power is yet thine own!
Feel I not thy spirit brood
O'er the whispering solitude?
Lo! at one high thought of thee,
Fast they rise, the bold, the free,
Sweeping past thy lowly bed,
With a mute though stately tread.
Shedding their pale armour's light
Forth upon the breathless night,
Bending every warlike plume
In the prayer o'er saintly tomb.

Is the noble Douglas nigh,
Armed to follow thee, or die?
Now, true heart! as thou wert wont
Pass thou to the peril's front!
Where the banner-spear is gleaming,
And the battle's red wine streaming,
Till the Paynim quail before thee,
Till the cross wave proudly o'er thee.
-Dreams the falling of a leaf,

Wins me from their splendours brief;

Dreams, yet bright ones! scorn them not,
Thou that seek'st the holy spot:

Nor, amidst its lone domain,
Call the faith in relics vain!

MRS. HEMANS.

On the Loss of the Royal George.

ON THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE.

WOLL for the brave!

The brave that are no more!

All sunk beneath the wave,

Fast by their native shore !

Eight hundred of the brave,

Whose courage well was tried,

Had made the vessel heel,

And laid her on her side.

A land breeze shook the shrouds,
And she was overset ;

Down went the Royal George,
With all her crew complete.

Toll for the brave!

Brave Kempenfelt is gone:
His last sea-fight is fought;
His work of glory done.

It was not in the battle;

No tempest gave the shock;

She sprang no fatal leak;

She ran upon no rock.

His sword was in its sheath,
His fingers held the pen,

When Kempenfelt went down

With twice four hundred men.

Weigh the vessel up

Once dreaded by our foes!

And mingle with our cup

The tear that England owes.

45

Her timbers yet are sound,

And she may float again

Full charged with England's thunder,
And plough the distant main.

But Kempenfelt is gone

His victories are o'er;

And he and his eight hundred

Shall plough the wave no more.

FLIGHT OF XERXES.

COWPER.

SAW him on the battle eve,

When, like a king he bore him-

Proud hosts were there in helm and greave,

And prouder chiefs before him:

The warrior, and the warrior's deeds—

The morrow,

and the morrow's meeds

No daunting thought came o'er him; He looked around him, and his eye Defiance flashed to earth and sky!

He looked on ocean-its broad breast
Was covered with his fleet;

On earth-and saw, from east to west,
His bannered millions meet;

While rock, and glen, and cave, and coast,
Shook with the war-cry of that host,

The thunder of their feet!

He heard the imperial echoes ring-
He heard and felt himself a king!