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We buried him darkly at dead of night,

The sods with our bayonets turning,
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,

And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Not in sheet or 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 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 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!

WOLFE,

TO THE MEMORY OF A VERY PROMISING

CHILD,

WRITTEN AFTER WITXESSING HER LAST MOMENTS.

I CANNOT weep, yet I can feel

The pangs that rend a parent's breast ; But, ah! what sighs or tears can heal

Thy griefs, and wake the slumb'rer's rest ?

What art thou, spirit undefin'd,

That passest with man's breath away, That giv'st him feeling, sense, and mind,

And leav'st him cold, unconscious clay ?

A moment gone, I look'd, and, lo!

Sensation throbb’d through all her frame; Those beamless eyes were raised in wo;

That bosom's motion went and came.

The next, a nameless change was wrought,

Death nipt in twain life's brittle thread, And, in a twinkling, feeling, thought,

Sensation, motion-all were fled !

Those lips will never more repeat

The welcome lesson conn'd with care ; Or breathe at even, in accents sweet,

To Heaven the well-remember'd prayer !

Those little hands shall ne'er essay

To ply the mimic task again,
Well pleased, forgetting mirth and play,

A mother's promised gift to gain !

That heart is still no more to move,

That cheek is wan—no more to bloom, Or dimple in the smile of love,

That speaks a parent's welcome home. And thou, with years and suff’rings bow'd,

Say, dost thou least this loss deplore ?
Ah! though thy wailings are not loud,

I fear thy secret grief is more.
Youth's griefs are loud, but are not long ;

But thine with life itself shall last ;
And age will feel each sorrow strong,

When all its morning-joys are past. 'Twas thine her infant mind to mould,

And leave the copy all thou art ; And sure the wide world does not hold

A warmer or a purer heart ! I cannot weep, yet I can feel

The pangs that rend a parent's breast ; But ah! what sorrowing can unseal Those eyes, and wake the slumb'rer's rest?

M'DIARMID.

THE END.

Oliver & Boyd, Printers.

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