THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE, WHO FELL AT THE BATTLE OF CORUNNA, IN 1808. 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, Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, But half of our heavy task was done, When the clock toll'd the hour for retiring; And we heard by the distant and random gun, That the foe was suddenly firing. Slowly and sadly we laid hin, down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory : We carved not a line, we raised not a stone, But we left him alone with his glory. MR. MR. CAMPBELL'S ODE ON THE RETIREMENT OF MR. J. P. KEMBLE. Pride of the British stage, A long and last Adieu ! Like fields refresh'd with dewy light, And memory conjures feelings up, As high we lift the festal cup, His was the spell o'er hearts, For ill can Poetry express Full many a tone of thought sublime; But, by the mighty Actor brought, Time may again revive, But ne'er efface the charm, What soul was not resign'd entire And yet a majesty possess'd His transports most impetuous tone, And to each passion of his breast The Graces gave their zone. High were the task-too high, But who forgets that white discrowned head, |