He saw increasing on his father's heart, With the deep deadly thought that they must part. His eyes from off his face, but wiped the foam And when the wished-for shower at length was come, And the boy's eyes, which the dull film half glazed, Brightened, and for a moment seemed to roam, He squeezed from out a rag some drops of rain Into his dying child's mouth! but in vain! The boy expired—the father held the clay, And looked upon it long; and when at last Death left no doubt, and the dead burden lay Stiff on his heart, and pulse and hope were past, He watched it wistfully, until away 'Twas borne by the rude wave wherein 'twas cast; When he himself sank down all dumb and shivering, And gave no sign of life, save his limbs' quivering. CHARLES WOLFE.-Born, 1791; Died, 1823. Tho Rev. Charles Wolfe was an Irish clergyman. The two exquisite pieces here given are his best compositions. He died of consumption, in 1823, at the age of 32. THE DEATH OF MARY. IF 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 pass'd, When I on thee should look my last, And still upon that face I look, But when I speak thou dost not say If thou wouldst stay, e'en as thou art, I still might press thy silent heart, I do not think, where'er thou art, And I perhaps may soothe this heart In thinking still 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. THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.1 Nor a drum was heard, not a funeral-note, No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Not in sheet or in shroud we wound 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, 1 Sir John Moore was the commander of a small British army which was sent into the heart of Spain in 1809 to draw away Napoleon from Madrid. Huge forces of the French having closed in pursuit of him, he could only retreat to the coast, and did so with splendid skill, but he was killed by a cannon shot in the battle of Corunna, the port from which his troops were to sail for England. The French were defeated, but the death of Moore was a heavy price for victory. He was born in 1761, so that he was forty-eight years of age when killed. He was buried within the ramparts of Corunna, Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, When the clock struck the hour for retiring; Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory; P. B. SHELLEY.-Born, 1792; Died, 1823 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY was the eldest son of Sir Timothy Shelley, Bart. He was born in 1792, and early showed his rich poetical genius; but his opinions were so extreme in some respects, that it was long before he received the high place he now holds among our poets. He was drowned near Leghorn in 1823, at the age of thirty-one. In private life he was pure, gentle, and lovable. AUTUMN.-A DIRGE. THE warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is wailing, On the earth, her death-bed, in a shroud of loaves dead, Is lying. Come, Months, come away, Follow the bier Of the dead cold year, And like dim shadows watch by her sepulchre. The chill rain is falling, the nipt worm is crawling, For the year; The blithe swallows are flown, and the lizards, each, gone Come, Months, come away; Of the dead cold year, And make her grave green with tear on tear. THE RECOLLECTION. WE wandered to the Pine Forest That skirts the Ocean's foam, The whispering waves were half asleep, And on the bosom of the deep The smile of Heaven lay; It seemed as if the hour were one Sent from beyond the skies, Which scattered from above the sun A light of Paradise.1 1 Lit. a park or pleasure ground. In Scripture, the abode of the first man. |