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Not a drum was heard,—not a funeral note, While his corse to the ramparts was hurried:

Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot,
O'er the grave where our hero was buried!

We buried him darkly, at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning,

By the struggling moon-beams' misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.—

No useless coffin inclosed his breast,

Nor in sheet nor in shroud we bound 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 stedfastly gazed on the face of the dead
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.


We thought, as we hollowed 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!

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,

And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him;
But nothing 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 tolled the hour for retiring;

And we heard the distant and random gun
Of the enemy 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.


O stranger! let no ill-timed tear

Be shed for those who slumber here;

But, rather envy them the sleep

From which they ne'er can wake to weep!

Why mourn ?—since freed from human ill,
The throbbing bosom cold and still!
Why mourn—since death presents us peace,
And in the grave our sorrows cease?

The shattered bark, from adverse winds
Here her last anchor drops, and finds—
Safe, where life's storms no more molest—
A haven of untroubled rest!

Then, stranger !—let no ill-timed tear,
Be shed for those who slumber here;
But, rather envy them the sleep
From which they ne'er can wake—to weep!

Yet oh! if thou hast learnt to scan,

With feeling eye, the fate of man;

Go weep for those still doomed to sorrow—

Who mourn the past!—nor hope the morrow 1

For those, whose tears must ceaseless flow!—
Whose round of pain each morn renew;
Who—if they dream—but dream of woe,
And wake to find their visions true.



'Tis liberty alone that gives the flower

Of fleeting life its lustre and perfume;

And we are weeds without it. All constraint,

Except what wisdom lays on evil men,

Is evil: hurts the faculties, impedes

Their progress in the road of science; blinds

The eye-sight of discovery, and begets,

In those that suffer it a sordid mind,

Bestial, a meagre intellect, unfit

To be the tenant of man's noble form.

Thee therefore, still, blame-worthy as thou art,

With all thy loss of empire, and though squeezed

By public exigence till annual food

Fails for the craving hunger of the state,

Thee I account still happy, and the chief

Among the nations, seeing thou art free;

My native nook of earth! Thy clime is rude,

Replete with vapours, and disposes much

All hearts to sadness, and none more than mine;

Thine unadulterate manners are less soft

And plausible than social life requires,

And thou hast need of discipline and art

To give thee what politer France receives

From Nature's bounty—that humane address

And sweetness, without which no pleasure is

In converse, either starved by cold reserve,

Or flushed with fierce dispute, a senseless brawl;

Yet, being free, I love thee: For the sake

Of that one feature, can be well content,

Disgraced as thou hast been, poor as thou art,

To seek no sublunary rest beside.

But, once enslaved, farewell! I could endure

Chains no where patiently; and chains at home,

Where I am free by birthright, not at all.

Then what were left of roughness in the grain

Of British natures, wanting its excuse,


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