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Ah ! few shall part where many meet !
Shall be soldier's sepulchre.
BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.
Sir John Moore was an English general, killed ard buried in Spain during Wellington's campaign against Napoleon, 1809.
Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corse to the rampart we hurried;
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.
We buried him darkly, at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning;
No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him;
With his martial cloak around him.
Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed,
And smoothed down his lonely pillow,
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;
In the grave where a Briton has laid him !
But half of our heavy task was done
When the clock tolled 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, we raised not stone,
But we left him alone with his glory.
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.
Wearied arm and broken sword
Wage in vain the desperate fight;
He is but a single knight.
Through the wilderness resounds,
Now they heap the fatal pyre,
And the torch of death they light:
Who will shield the captive knight?
Cold the victim's nien, and proud,
Who will shield the fearless heart?
Who avert the murderous blade ?
See there springs an Indian maid.
I am daughter of the king,
Dauntlessly aside she flings
Lifted axe and thirsty knife;
And her bosom guards his life!
Still 'tis told by Indian fires,
How a daughter of their sires
“The dead hand clasped a letter."-Special Correspondence.
Here in this leafy place,
Quiet he lies,
Turned to the skies;
Carry his body hence,
Kings must have slaves;
Over men's graves:
What was the white you touched,
There, at his side ?
Tight ere he died;-
Hardly the worst of us
Here could have smiled !-
Words of a child;
Look. She is sad to miss,
Morning and night,
Tries to be bright,
Ah, if beside the dead
Slumbered the pain !
Slept with the slain !
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;
Every sense in slumber dewing.
Armor's clang, or war-steed champing, Trump nor pibroch summon here,
Mustering clan, or squadron tramping. Yet the lark's shrill fife may come
At the daybreak from the fallow, And the bittern sound his drum,
Booming from the sedgy shallow. Ruder sounds shall none be near; Guards nor warders challenge here, Here's no war-steed's neigh and champing, Shouting clans, or squadrons stamping.
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! the deer is in his den;
Sleep! thy hounds are by thee lying;
How thy gallant steed lay dying.
THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
Under a spreading chestnut tree
The village smithy stands;
With large and sinewy hands;
Are strong as iron bands.
His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
His face is like the tan;
He earns whate'er he can,
For he owes not any man.
Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
With measured beat and slow,
When the evening sun is low.
Look in at the open door;
And hear the bellows roar,
Like chaff from a threshing-floor.