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The Burial of Sir John Moore.

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,

As his corse to the rampart we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot

O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

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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 lanthorn dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Not in sheet or 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 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,

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.

CHARLES WOLFE.

Song.- If I had Thought.

Ir I had thought thou couldst have died,

I might not weep for thee;
But I forgot, when by thy side,

That thou couldst mortal be.
It never through my mind had passed,

The time would e'er be o'er,
And I on thee should look my lasty

And thou wouldst smile no more.

And still upon that face I look,

And think 't will smile again;
And still the thought I will not brook,

That I must look in vain.
But when I speak, thou dost not say

What thou ne'er left'st unsaid,
And now I feel, as well I may,

Sweet Mary, thou art dead.

If thou wouldst stay e'en as thou arty

All cold and all serene,
I still might press thy silent heart,

And where thy smiles have been.
While e'en thy chill, bleak corse I have,

Thou seemest still mine own;
But there I lay thee in thy grave,

And I am now alone.

I do not think, where'er thou arty
Thou hast forgotten me;

And I perhaps may soothe this heart

In thinking too of thee;
Yet there was round thee such a dawn

Of light ne'er seen before,
As fancy never could have drawn,
And never can restore.

CHARLES WOLFE,

Song.-Go, Forget fae.

Go, forget mel Why should sorrow

O'er that brow a shadow fling? Go, forget me, and to-morrow

Brightly smile and sweetly sing.
Smile—though I shall not be near thee.
Sing—though I shall never hear thee.

May thy soul with pleasure shine,
Lasting as the gloom of mine.

Like the Sun, thy presence glowing

Clothes the meanest things in light;
And when thou, like him, art going,

Loveliest objects fade in night.
All things looked so bright about thee,
That they nothing seem without thee;

By that pure and lucid mind
Earthly things are too refined.

Go, thou vision wildly gleaming,

Softly on my soul that fell; Go, for me no longer beaming

Hope and Beauty, fare ye well! !
Go, and all that once delighted
Take, and leave me all benighted :

Glory's burning, generous swell,
Fancy, and the poet's shell.

CHARLES WOLFE.

The First Miracle.

Lympha pudica Deum vidit, et erubuit.
The modest water saw its God, and blushed.

RICHARD CRASHAW.

A Javanese Poem.

I do not know where I shall die. I saw the great sea on the south coast, when I was there with

my father making salt. If I die at sea, and my body is thrown into the deep

water, then sharks will come: They will swim round my corpse, and ask, " Which of us shall devour the body that goes down into the water?

I shall not hear it.

I do not know where I shall die. I saw in a blaze the house of Pa-Ausoë, Which he himself had set on fire because he was mata

glap. If I die in a burning house, glowing embers will fall on my

corpse, And outside the house there will be many cries of men throwing water on the fire to kill it.

I shall not hear it.

I do not know where I shall die. I saw the little Si-Oenah fall out of a klappa tree, when

he plucked the klappa for his mother. If I fall out of a klappa tree, I shall lie dead below in the

shrubs, like Si-Oenah. Then my mother will not weep, for she is dead. But others will say with a loud voice, “See, there lies Saidjah!”

I shall not hear it.

Mata-glap, insane

Klappa, cocoanut.

I do not know where I shall die. I have seen the corpse of Pa-Lisoë, who died of old age,

for his hairs were white. If I die of old age, with white hairs, hired women will

stand weeping near my corpse, And they will make lamentations, as did the mourners over Pa-Lisoë's

corpse; And the grandchildren will weep very loud.

I shall not hear it.

I do not know where I shall die. I have seen at Badoer many that were dead. They were dressed in white shrouds, and were buried in

the earth. If I die at Badoer, and am buried beyond the village, east

ward against the hill where the grass is high, Then will Adinda pass by there, and the border of her sarong will sweep softly along the grass. I shall hear it.

EDUARD DOUWES DEKKER. Translated by Baron ALPHONSE NAHUY8.

a Yukon Cradle-Song.

The wind blows over the Yukon.
My husband hunts the deer on the Koyukun mountains
Ahmi, Ahmi, sleep, little one.

There is no wood for the fire.
The stone axe is broken, my husband carries the other.
Where is the sun-warmth ? Hid in the dam of the beaver,

waiting the spring-time.
Ahmi, Ahmi, sleep, little one, wake not.

Look not for ukali, old woman.
Long since the cache was emptied, and the crow does not

light on the ridge-pole.

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