Then Denmark blessed our chief, As death withdrew his shades from the day; O'er a wide and woeful sight, Where the fires of funeral light Now joy, old England, raise, While the wine-cup shines in light! By thy wild and stormy steep, Brave hearts! to Britain's pride Soft sigh the winds of heaven o'er their grave! And the mermaid's song condoles, Singing glory to the souls Of the brave! CAMPBELL. DIRGE IN CYMBELINE. To fair Fidele's grassy tomb Soft maids and village hinds shall bring Each opening sweet, of earliest bloom, And rifle all the breathing spring. No wailing ghost shall dare appear, And melting virgins own their love. No withered witch shall here be seen, The redbreast oft, at evening hours, To deck the ground where thou art laid! When howling winds and beating rain Each lonely scene shall thee restore, COLLINS. 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. We buried him darkly, at dead of night, 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, We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, 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 by the distant and random That the foe was sullenly firing. Slowly and sadly we laid him down, gun, 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 THE ROSE. THE rose had been washed, just washed in a shower, The plentiful moisture encumbered the flower, The cup was all filled, and the leaves were all wet, To weep for the buds it had left with regret I hastily seized it, unfit as it was And such, I exclaimed, is the pitiless part Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart This elegant rose, had I shaken it less, Might have bloomed with its owner awhile; And the tear that is wiped with a little address, May be followed perhaps by a smile. COWPER. THE CASTAWAY. OBSCUREST night involved the sky, No braver chief could Albion boast He loved them both, but both in vain, Not long beneath the whelming brine, Nor soon he felt his strength decline, But waged with death a lasting strife, He shouted: nor his friends had failed |