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We buried him darkly, at dead of night,

The sods with our bayonets turning;
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,

And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin inclosed 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,

And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we stedfastly gazed on the face of the dead,

As 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 little 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 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,
But we left him alone with his glory!

Wolfe. 5.—ON A FAVORITE CAT DROWNED IN A

TUB OF GOLD FISHES.

'twas on a lofty vase's side
Where China's gayest art had dyed

The azure flowers that blow,
Demurest of the tabby kind,
The pensive Selina, reclined,

Gazed on the lake below.

Her conscious tail her joy declared:
The fair round face, the snowy beard,

The velvet of her paws,
Her coat that with the tortoise vies,
Her ears of jet and emerald eyes,

She saw, and purr'd applause.

Still had she gazed, but midst the tide
Two angel forms were seen to glide,

The genii of the stream:
Their scaly armour's Tyrian hue,
Through richest purple, to the view

Betrayed a golden gleam.

The hapless nymph with wonder saw:
A whisker first, and then a claw,

With many an ardent wish,
She stretch'd in vain to reach the prize;
What female heart can gold despise?

What cat's averse to fish?

Presumptuous maid! with looks intent
Again she stretch'd, again she bent,

Nor knew the gulf between.
Malignant fate sat by and smiled,
The slippery verge her feet beguiled;

She tumbled headlong in!

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Eight times emerging from the flood
She mew'd to every watery god

Some speedy aid to send:
No dolphin came, no naiad stirr'd,
Nor cruel Tom nor Susan heard

A favourite has no friend 1

6—THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. Under a spreading chestnut tree

The village smithy stands; The smith, a mighty man is he,

With large and sinewy hands; And the muscles of his brawny arms

Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long,

His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,

He earns whate'er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,

For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;

You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,

Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school

Look in at the open door:
They love to see the flaming forge,

And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly

Like chaff from a threshing-floor.

Gray.

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