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Then Denmark blessed our chief,
Now joy, old England, raise,
Brave hearts ! to Britain's pride
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,
To vex with shrieks this quiet grove; But shepherd lads assemble here,
And melting virgins own their love.
No withered witch shall here be seen,
No goblins lead their nightly crew; The female fays shall haunt the green,
And dress thy grave with pearly dew!
The redbreast oft, at evening hours,
Shall kindly lend his little aid,
To deck the ground where thou art laid !
When howling winds and beating rain
In tempests shake the sylvan cell, Or midst the chase, on every plain,
The tender thought on thee shall dwell:
Each lonely scene shall thee restore,
For thee the tear be duly shed, Beloved, till life can charm no more;
And mourned, till pity's self be dead.
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,
The sods with our bayonets turning;
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;
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;
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 by 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!
THE rose had been washed, just washed in a shower,
Which Mary to Anna conveyed;
And weighed down its beautiful head.
The cup was all filled, and the leaves were all wet,
And it seemed, to a fanciful view,
On the flourishing bush where it grew.
For a nosegay, so dripping and drowned, And swinging it rudely, too rudely, alas !
I snapped it: it fell to the ground.
And such, I exclaimed, is the pitiless part
Some act by the delicate mind,
Already to sorrow resigned.
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.
OBSCUREST night involved the sky,
The Atlantic billows roared, When such a destined wretch as I,
Washed headlong from on board, Of friends, of hope, of all bereftHis fioating home for ever left.
No braver chief could Albion boast
Than he with whom he went,
With warmer wishes sent.
Not long beneath the whelming brine,
Expert to swim, he lay;
Or courage die away!
He shouted: nor his friends had failed
To check the vessel's course :