Ah! few shall part where many meet ! Shall be a soldier's sepulchre. BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. CHARLES WOLFE. Sir John Moore was an English general, killed and buried in Spain during Wellington's campaign against Napoleon, 1809. Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, We buried him darkly, at dead of night, No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him; Few and short were the prayers we said, But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead, We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, But half of our heavy task was done Slowly and sadly 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 with his glory. POCAHONTAS. WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. Wearied arm and broken sword Through the wilderness resounds, Now they heap the fatal pyre, Who will shield the captive knight? Who will shield the fearless heart? Dauntlessly aside she flings BEFORE SEDAN. AUSTIN DOBSON. "The dead hand clasped a letter."-Special Correspondence. Here in this leafy place, Cold, with his sightless face 'Tis but another dead; Carry his body hence,- So this man's eye is dim;- What was the white you touched, Paper his hand had clutched Tight ere he died; Message or wish, may be;-- Smooth the folds out and see. Hardly the worst of us Here could have smiled! Only the tremulous Words of a child; Prattle that has for stops Just a few ruddy drops. Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er, Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking; Dream of battle-fields no more, Days of danger, nights of waking. In our isle's enchanted hall, Hands unseen thy couch are strewing; Fairy strains of music fall, Every sense in slumber dewing. Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er, Dream of fighting fields no more; Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking, No rude sound shall reach thine ear, Mustering clan, or squadron tramping. Here's no war-steed's neigh and champing, Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done, While our slumb'rous spells assail ye, Dream not with the rising sun, Bugles here shall sound reveille. Sleep! thy hounds are by thee lying; THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. Under a spreading chestnut tree His hair is crisp, and black, and long, His brow is wet with honest sweat, And looks the whole world in the face, Week in, week out, from morn till night, You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, And children coming home from school They love to see the flaming forge, And catch the burning sparks that fly Like chaff from a threshing-floor. |