THE POETICAL COMMON-PLACE BOOK. THE VOICE OF PRAISE. MARY RUSSELL MITFORD. THERE is a voice of magic power In every clime, in every tongue, There lives not one who has not hung Enraptur'd on the voice of praise. The timid child, at that soft voice, Whilst shame and infant modesty A The lovely maiden's dimpled cheek The hero, when a people's voice Their shouts of love, of praise to hear? Yes! fame to generous minds is dearIt pierces to their inmost core; He weeps, who never shed a tear; He trembles, who ne'er shook before. The poet too-ah! well I deem, Small is the need the tale to tell ;' Who knows not that his thought, his dream, On thee at noon, at midnight, dwell? Who knows not that thy magic spell Can charm his every care away? In memory cheer his gloomy cell; In hope can lend a deathless day. 'Tis sweet to watch Affection's eye; To mark the tear with love replete ; To feel the softly-breathing sigh, When Friendship's lips the tones repeat; But oh! a thousand times more sweet The praise of those we love to hear! Like balmy showers in summer heat, It falls upon the greedy ear. The lover lulls his rankling wound, Of her young warrior's growing fame. That voice can quiet passion's mood; There is a lip, there is an eye, THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE, Who fell at Corunna in 1808. - HAILY. Nor a drum was heard, nor 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 enclosed his breast, Nor in sheet nor in shroud we bound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, Few-and short were the prayers we said, We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed, 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, But nothing he'll reck, if they let him sleep on, But half of our heavy task was done, When the clock toll'd the hour for retiring, And we heard the distant and random gun, That the foe was suddenly firing. Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carv'd not a line, we rais'd not a stone, But we left him alone with his glory. THE SOLITARY TOMB. BARTON. Nor a leaf of the tree which stood near me was stirr'd, Tho' a breath might have mov'd it so lightly; Nor a farewell note from a sweet-singing bird, The sky was cloudless and calm, except In the west, where the sun was descending; And there the rich tints of the rainbow slept, As his beams with their beauty were blending. And the evening star with its ray so clear, Had lit up its lamp, and shot down from its sphere Its dewy, delightful splendour. And I stood all alone on that gentle hill, Far off was the Deben, whose briny flood And close by the foot of the hill where I stood How lonely and lovely their resting-place seem'd! On the solitary tomb in its centre! When, at morn or at eve, I have wander'd near, It hath sometimes seem'd like a lonely sail, |