THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, We buried him darkly, at dead of night, No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Not 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, But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, And we bitterly thought of the morrow. F We thought, as we hollowed 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 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! Wolfe. IT IS NOT THE TEAR. It is not the tear at this moment shed, When the cold turf has just been laid o'er him, That can tell how beloved was the friend that's fled, Or how deep in our hearts we deplore him. 'Tis the tear, through many a long day wept, 'Tis life's whole path o'ershaded; 'Tis the one remembrance, fondly kept, When all lighter griefs have faded. Thus, his memory, like some holy light Kept alive in our hearts, will improve them, For worth shall look fairer, and truth more bright, When we think how he lived but to love them. And, as fresher flowers the sod perfume, Where buried saints are lying, So our hearts shall borrow a sweetening bloom, From the image he left there in dying! Moore. THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER. 'Tis the last rose of summer Or give sigh for sigh. I'll not leave thee, thou lone one! To pine on the stem; Since the lovely are sleeping, Go, sleep thou with them. Thus kindly I scatter Thy leaves o'er the bed Where thy mates of the garden Lie scentless and dead. So soon may I follow, When friendships decay, And from Love's shining circle When true hearts lie withered, And fond ones are flown, O! who would inhabit This bleak world alone? Moore. OFT IN THE STILLY NIGHT. Oft in the stilly night, Ere Slumber's chain has bound me, Fond Memory brings the light Of other days around me; The smiles, the tears, Of boyhood's years, The words of love then spoken; The eyes that shone, Now dimmed and gone, The cheerful hearts now broken! Thus, in the stilly night, Ere Slumber's chain has bound me, Sad Memory brings the light Of other days around me. When I remember all The friends, so linked together, I've seen around me fall, Like leaves in wintry weather, |