Each one the holy vault doth hold, -
But the sea holds lovely Rosabelle!

And each St. Clair was buried there,

With candle, with book, and with knell; But the sea-caves rung, and the wild winds sung The dirge of lovely Rosabelle.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

PIBROCH OF DONUIL DHU.

PIBROCH of Donuil Dhu,
Pibroch of Donuil,

Wake thy wild voice anew,
Summon Clan-Conuil.
Come away, come away,

Hark to the summons!
Come in your war array,
Gentles and commons.

Come from deep glen, and
From mountain so rocky,
The war-pipe and pennon
Are at Inverlochy:
Come every hill-plaid, and

True heart that wears one,
Come every steel blade, and
Strong hand that bears one.

Leave untended the herd,
The flock without shelter;

Leave the corpse uninterr'd,
The bride at the altar;

Cast

your plaids, draw your blades, Forward each man set!

Pibroch of Donuil Dhu,

Knell for the onset!

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

LOVE OF COUNTRY.1

BREATHES there the man, with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said,

This is my own, my native land!

Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned,
As home his footsteps he hath turned,

From wandering on a foreign strand?

1 This is an extract from the Lay of the Last Minstrel.

If such there breathe, go, mark him well:
For him no minstrel raptures swell;

High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim;
Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch, concentred all in self,
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust, from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonored, and unsung.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

LIFE AND DEATH.

LIFE! I know not what thou art,
But know that thou and I must part;
And when, or how, or where we met
I own to me 's a secret yet.

Life! we've been long together

Through pleasant and through cloudy weather;
'T is hard to part when friends are dear,
Perhaps 't will cost a sigh, a tear;

Then steal away, give little warning,
Choose thine own time;

Say not Good Night,

but in some brighter clime Bid me Good Morning.

ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD.1

1 ANNA LÆTITIA BARBAULD, the daughter of the Rev. John Aikin, was born in 1743, and married in 1774 to the Rev. Rochemont Barbauld, a dissenting minister. She was a prolific writer, chiefly for children and on educational and political subjects. Some of her poems have considerable merit. She died in 1825.

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE, AT CORUNNA.1

NOT a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corpse 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 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 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 hollow'd 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!

The British army, under Sir John Moore, entered Spain in 1808. They were forced to retreat before the French to Corunna, where they made a gallant stand, and after hard fighting repulsed the French, January 16, 1809. Sir John Moore was fatally wounded in this battle and buried the same night. The next day the army was safely embarked on board the British Reet.

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.

CHARLES WOLFE.1

BOAT SONG.

HAIL to the chief who in triumph advances!
Honored and blessed be the evergreen pine!
Long may the tree in his banner that glances
Flourish, the shelter and grace of our line!
Heaven send it happy dew,

Earth lend it sap anew,

Gayly to bourgeon, and broadly to grow;
While every highland glen

Sends our shout back again,

Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!"

1 CHARLES WOLFE, a connection of General James Wolfe, the ero of Quebec, was born in Dublin, 1791, and educated at Dublin University. He entered the church and became curate of Donoughmore. He wrote, besides sermons, various essays and "ome poetry, but has secured a lasting remembrance by this ingle famous poem. He died at Cork in 1823.