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Singing hymns unbidden,
Till the world is wrought
Like a high-born maiden
In a palace tower,
Soul in secret hour
Like a glow-worm golden
In a dell of dew,
Its aerial hue
Like a rose embowered
In its own green leaves,
Till the scent it gives
Sound of vernal showers
On the twinkling grass,
All that ever was
Teach us, sprite or bird,
What sweet thoughts are thine :
Praise o. love or wino
Or triumphal chant,
But an empty vaunt,
What objects are the fountains
Of thy happy strain?
What shapes of sky or plain?
With thy clear keen joyance,
Languor cannot be:
Never came near thee :
Waking or asleep,
Thou of death must deem
Than we mortals dream,
We look before and after,
And pine for what is not;
With some pain is fraught;
Yet if we could scorn
Hate, and pride, and fear;
If we were things born
Not to shed a tear,
Better than all measures
Of delightful sound,
That in books are found,
Teach me half the gladness
That thy brain must know,
From my lips would flow,
Ah, woe is me! Winter is come and gone,
And the green lizard, and the golden snake,
Through wood and stream and field and hill and ocean,
From the great morning of the world, when first
Diffuse themselves; and spend in love's delight
THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.
Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corpse to the rampart we hurried ;
O’er the grave where our hero we buried.
We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning;
And the lantern dimly burning.
No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him;
With his martial cloak around him.
Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
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,
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
But half of our heavy task was done,
When the clock struck the hour for retiring;
Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
From the field of his fame fresh and gory;
THE HOMES OF ENGLAND.
THE stately homes of England,
O'er all the pleasant land!
The deer across their green sward bound
Through shade and sunny gleam,
Of some rejoicing stream.
The merry homes of England!