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THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE,

WHO FELL AT THE BATTLE OF CORUNNA, IN 1808.

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Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow,
But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed,
And smooth'd 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 toll'd the hour for retiring; And we heard by the distant and random gun, That the foe was suddenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid hin, 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.

MR.

MR. CAMPBELL'S ODE ON THE RETIREMENT OF MR. J. P. KEMBLE.

Pride of the British stage,

A long and last Adieu !
Whose image brought th' heroic age
Reviv'd to fancy's view.

Like fields refresh'd with dewy light,
When the Sun smiles his last,
Thy parting presence makes more bright
Our memory of the past.

And memory conjures feelings up,
That wine or music need not swell,

As high we lift the festal cup,
To" Kemble, fare thee well."

His was the spell o'er hearts,
Which only acting lends-
The youngest of the sister arts
Where all their beauty blends.

For ill can Poetry express

Full many a tone of thought sublime;
And Painting, mute and motionless,
Steals but one glance from Time.

But, by the mighty Actor brought,
Illusion's wedded triumphs come-
Verse ceases to be airy thought,
And Sculpture to be dumb.

Time may again revive,

But ne'er efface the charm,
When Cato spoke in him alive,
Or Hotspur kindled warm.

What soul was not resign'd entire
To the deep sorrows of the Moor!
What English heart was not on fire,
With him at Agincourt?

And yet a majesty possess'd

His transports most impetuous tone,

And to each passion of his breast

The Graces gave their zone.

High were the task-too high,
Ye conscious bosoms here,
In words to paint your memory,
Of Kemble and of Lear.

But who forgets that white discrowned head,
Those bursts of Reason's half extinguish'd glare,
Those tears upon Cordelia's bosom shed,
In doubt more touching than despair?

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