Harp of the North. HARP of the North, farewell! The hills grow dark, And herdboy's evening pipe and hum of housing bee. Yet once again farewell, thou minstrel harp! May idly cavil at an idle lay. Much have I owed thy strains on life's long way, Through secret woes the world has never known, When on the weary night dawned wearier day, And bitterer was the grief devoured alone. That I o'erlive such woes, Enchantress, is thine own! Scott. Cithara Caledoniæ. ORTA Caledoniis valeas, Cithara, orta sub antris! Emicat in saltu seræ lampyridos ignis, Nec prima reducum nocte susurrus apum. Ergo iterum valeas, Cithara, acceptissima vati! Quod mihi per tantos suffecit vita labores, B. H. D. Moloch. My sentence is for open war: of wiles For while they sit contriving, shall the rest, By our delay? No, let us rather choose, Armed with hell flames and fury, all at once, O'er heaven's high towers to force resistless way, Turning our tortures into horrid arms Against the torturer; when to meet the noise Of his almighty engine he shall hear Infernal thunder, and for lightning see Black fire and horror shot with equal rage Among his angels, and his throne itself Mixed with Tartarean sulphur, and strange fire, His own invented torments. Milton. Moloch loquitur. BELLA placent nobis: nobis ars unica bellum, Aspiciant: nostri interea nigrantia lustra Carceris, atque alii tradunt sua regna morando. *G. C. The Burial of Sir John Moore. NOT a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corse to the ramparts we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot, O'er the grave where our hero we buried. 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, We thought as we hollowed his narrow bed, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, |