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He saw increasing on his father's heart,
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,
And looked upon it long; and when at last
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;
That thou couldst mortal be;
It never through my mind had pass'd,
That time would e'er be o'erWhen I on thee should look
last, And thou shouldst smile no more.
And still upon that face I look,
And think 'twill smile again;
That I must look in vain ;
What thou ne'er left’st unsaid ;
Sweet Mary, thou art dead.
If thou wouldst stay, e'en as thou art,
All cold and all serene,
And where thy smile has been ; While e'en thy chill bleak corse I have,
Thou seemest still mine own,
I do not think, where'er thou art,
Thou hast forgotten me;
In thinking still of thee!
Of light ne'er seen before,
And never can restore.
THE 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.
The sods with our bayonets turning;
And the lantern dimly burning.
Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him ;
With his martial cloak around him.
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
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 !
I 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,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on 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 the distant and random gun
That the foe was sullenly firing.
From the field of his fame fresh and gory;
But we left him alone with his glory.
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, The bare boughs are sighing, the pale flowers are dying;
And the year
Follow the bier
Of the dead cold year,
For the year;
To his dwelling.
Of the dead cold year,
That skirts the Ocean's foam,
The tempest in its home.
The clouds were gone to play,
The smile of Heaven lay;
Sent from beyond the skies,
A light of Paradise.
1 Lit. a park or pleasure ground. In Scripture, the abode of the first man.