EATON STANNARD BARRETT. Abstracted answers, sudden feints of glee, Ah, cold are those who banter or reprove, The smile, the pout, capricious, fond delays; The captive finger, pressed as 'twere by chance, Wiles, which can even before a mother woo,- THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. NOT a drum was heard, not a funeral note, We buried him darkly at dead of night, No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound 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, CHARLES WOLFE. 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 half of our heavy task was done, When the clock struck 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, and we raised not a stone, SOME people say, that, when but three hours old, The first-born Love out of his cradle leapt, And clove dun Chaos with his wings of gold, And, like an horticultural adept, Stole a strange seed, and wrapt it up in mould, And sowed it in his mother's star, and kept Watering it all the summer with sweet dew, And with his wings fanning it as it grew. PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. The plant grew strong and green-the snowy flower To its own substance: woven tracery ran The solid rind, like a leaf's veined fan, Of which Love scooped this boat, and with soft motion Piloted it round the circumfluous ocean. THE CLOUD. I BRING fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, I bear light shades for the leaves when laid From my wings are shaken the dews that waken When rocked to rest on their mother's breast, I wield the flail of the lashing hail, And whiten the green plains under, I sift the snow on the mountains below, While I sleep in the arms of the blast. In a cavern under is fettered the thunder, |