THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. OT a drum was heard, nor a funeral note, As his corse to the ramparts we hurried; We buried him darkly, at dead of night; No useless coffin enclosed 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, ; But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was 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, But nothing he'll reck if they let him sleep on But half of our heavy task was done When the clock told the hour for retiring; And we heard by the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing. The Heart of Bruce in Melrose Abbey. Slowly and softly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory; WOLFE. 43 THE HEART OF BRUCE IN MELROSE ABBEY. EART! that didst press forward still,* Where the knightly swords were crossing, And the plumes like sea-foam tossing, Leader of the charging spear, Fiery heart!-and liest thou here? May this narrow spot inurn Aught that could so beat and burn? Heart! that lovedst the clarion's blast, Silent is thy place at last ; Silent-save when early bird Sings where once the moss was heard; Silent-save when breeze's moan * "Now pass thou forward, as thou art wont, and Douglas will follow thee or die!" With these words Douglas threw from him the heart of Bruce into mid-battle against the Moors of Spain. No, brave heart! though cold and lone, Is the noble Douglas nigh, Wins me from their splendours brief; Dreams, yet bright ones! scorn them not, Nor, amidst its lone domain, MRS. HEMANS. On the Loss of the Royal George. ON THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE. WOLL for the brave! The brave that are no more! All sunk beneath the wave, Fast by their native shore ! Eight hundred of the brave, Whose courage well was tried, Had made the vessel heel, And laid her on her side. A land breeze shook the shrouds, Down went the Royal George, Toll for the brave! Brave Kempenfelt is gone: It was not in the battle; No tempest gave the shock; She sprang no fatal leak; She ran upon no rock. His sword was in its sheath, When Kempenfelt went down With twice four hundred men. Weigh the vessel up Once dreaded by our foes! And mingle with our cup The tear that England owes. 45 Her timbers yet are sound, And she may float again Full charged with England's thunder, But Kempenfelt is gone His victories are o'er; And he and his eight hundred Shall plough the wave no more. FLIGHT OF XERXES. COWPER. SAW him on the battle eve, When, like a king he bore him- Proud hosts were there in helm and greave, And prouder chiefs before him: The warrior, and the warrior's deeds— The morrow, and the morrow's meeds No daunting thought came o'er him; He looked around him, and his eye Defiance flashed to earth and sky! He looked on ocean-its broad breast On earth-and saw, from east to west, While rock, and glen, and cave, and coast, The thunder of their feet! He heard the imperial echoes ring- |