WOLFE.

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.

We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning;
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Nor 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,

And we spoke not a word of sorrow:
But we stedfastly gazed on the face of the dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought as we hollowed his narrow bed,
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!

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.

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!

STANZAS.

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 past,
That time would e'er be o'er,
And I on thee should look my last,
And thou shouldst smile no more:

And still upon that face I look,
And think 'twill smile again;
And still the thought I will not brook,
That I must look in vain!

But when I speak, thou dost not say,
What thou ne'er left'st unsaid;
And now I feel, as well I may,
Sweet Mary! thou art dead!

If thou wouldst stay, e'en as thou art,
All cold and all serene-

I still might press thy silent heart,
And where thy smiles have been!
While e'en thy chill, bleak corse I have,
Thou seemest still mine own;

And there I lay thee in thy grave

And I am now alone!

I do not think, where'er thou art,
Thou hast forgotten me;

And I, perhaps, may sooth this heart,
In thinking too 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!

MRS. HEMANS.

THE HOUR OF DEATH

LEAVES have their time to fall,

And flowers to wither at the North-wind's breath,
And stars to set—but all,

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!

Day is for mortal care,

Eve for glad meetings round the joyous hearth,

Night for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer; But all for thee, thou mightiest of the earth!

The banquet hath its hour,

Its feverish hour of mirth, and song, and wine;
There comes a day for grief's o'erwhelming power,
A time for softer tears-but all are thine!

Youth and the opening rose

May look like things too glorious for decay,

And smile at thee!-but thou art not of those That wait the ripened bloom to seize their prey!