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While the thought that thou never again should'st roam, Would repay us, for all our mourning.
And so sweetly fell the words of Hope,
Ob! soft as the dews of heaven,
That we deemed 'twas the voice of an Angel spoke,
And our sorrows afar were driven t
And we thought as thou sailed'st o'er the ' dark blue
And never did foreign grave inclose
A Briton more gentle hearted!
For never did heart better feelings disclose,
Than his, who has now departed.
i . . : '' . 1
Not a friend attended thy dying bed;
Surrounded by war and danger,
Oh! who would pillow thy feverish head
But the cold, and the careless stranger?
Ah I often that scene doth Fancy trace,
Peace, peace to thy spirit! the words of hope
Now farewell, my friend I thou first, thou best!
Whilst a ray of mind is left me,
Though distant the place of thy long last rest,
I shall not, I cannot forget thee!
THE SOLDIER'S FUNERAL.
It is the funeral march. I did not think
That there had been such magic in sweet sounds!
Hark! from the blackened cymbal that dead tone—
It awes the very rabble multitude,
They follow silently, their earnest brows
Lifted in solemn thought. 'Tis not the pomp ,'
And pageantry of death that with such force
Arrests the sense,*—the mute apd mourning train,
The white plume nodding o'er the sable hearse,
Had passed unheeded, or perchance awoke
A serious smile upon the poor man's cheek
At Pride's last triumph. Now these measured sounds,
This universal language, to the heart
Speak instant, and on all .these various minds
But such better thoughts
Her tears of bitterness are shed; when first
We are indeed
Be moulded by his fate till he becomes
And there are
O my God 1
Night is the time for rest;
How sweet, when labours close, To gather round an aching breast
The curtain of repose; Stretch the tired limbs, and lay the head Upon our own delightful bed I
Night is the time for dreams;
The gay romance of life, When truth that is, and truth that seems,
Blend in fantastic strife; Ah! visions less beguiling far, Than waking dreams by day light are!
Night is the time for toil;
To plough the classic field,
Its wealthy furrows yield;