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We buried him darkly at dead of night,

The sods with our bayonets turningBy the struggling moonbeam's misty light,

And the lantern dimly burning. No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Not in sheet or in shroud we wound bim; 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 steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,

And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
We thought, as we hollow'd 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 bis 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 same fresh and gory : We carv'd not a line, and we rais'd not a stone

But we left him alone with his glory.


Oh, say not that my heart is cold

To aught that once could warm it-
That Nature's form, so dear of old,

No more has power to charm it-
Or that the ungenerous world can chill

One glow of fond emotion
For those who made it dearer still,

And shared my wild devotion!
Still of those solemn scenes I view

In rapt and dreamy sadness;
Oft look on those who loved them too

With Fancy's idle gladness :
Again I long'd to view the light

In Nature's features glowing;
Again to tread the mountain's height,

And taste the soul's o'erflowing.

Stern duty rose, and frowning fiung

His leaden chain around me; With iron look and sullen tongue

He mutter'd, as he bound me: “The mountain breeze, the boundless heaven,

Unfit for toil the creature;
These for the free alone are given -

But what have slaves with Nature ?"


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

The 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 'ıwill 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 thon 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;
But 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 soothe 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!


I must tune up my harp's broken string,

For the fair has commanded the strain;

But yet such a theme will I sing,

That I think she'll not ask me again.

For I'll tell her-Youth's blossom is blown,

And that Beauty, the flower, must fade;
(And sure, if a lady can frown,

She'll frown at the words I have said.)
The smiles of the rosebud how fleet!

They come—and as quickly they fly:
The violet how modest and sweet!

Yet the Spring sees it open and die.
How snow-white the lily appears!

Yet the life of a lily 's a day;
And the snow that equals, in tears

To-morrow must vanish away.

Ah, Beauty ! of all things on earth

How many thy charms most desire!
Yet Beauty with Youth has its birth-

And Beauty with Youth must expire.
Ah, fair ones! so sad is the tale,

That my song in my sorrow I steep;
And where I intended to rail,

I must lay down my harp, and must weep.
But Virtue indignantly seized

The harp, as it fell from my hand;
Serene was her look, though displeas'd,

And she utter'd her awful command :

Thy tears and thy pity employ

For the thoughtless, the giddy, the vain-
But those who my blessings enjoy

Thy tears and thy pity disdain.
" For Beauty alone ne'er bestow'd

Such a charm as Religion has lent;
And the cheek of a belle never glow'd

With a smile like the smile of content.

" Time's hand, and the pestilence-rage,

No hue, no complexion can brave;
For Beauty must yield to old age,

But I will not yield to the grave."


If there were no other reason for remembering our Creator in the days of our youth, than that we may never have an old age vouchsafed to us in which we may recall him to our thoughts ; that between us and that old age there may be a great gulf fixed that we shall never pass; if this were the only reason, should it not be enough? Nay, the sin of thus trifling with him and our own immortal souls, by deferring their consideration to a future opportunity, may be the very means of provoking him to withhold that opportunity for ever.

But there is another reason for remembering our Creator in the days of our youth. The days of our youth are the days of our blessings. It would be hard to find, throughout the whole range of creation, a more glorious and interesting object than youth just entering into active life, just rejoicing as a giant to run his course. Set him alongside of the noblest animal of any other species; compare him with the old and decaying members of his ownand what a difference! In those days we enter into life with a shower of God's blessings upon our heads; we come adorned with all the choicest gifts of the Almighty; with strength of body, with activity of limb, with health and vigor of constitution, with everything to fit us both for labor and for enjoyment; if not endowed with a sufficiency, endowed with what is better, the power of obtaining it for ourselves by an honest and manly industry; with senses keen and observing; with spirits high, lively, and untameable, that shake off care and sorrow whenever they attempt to fasten upon our mind, and that enable us to make pleasure for ourselves, where we do not find it, and to draw enjoyment and gratification from things in which they see nothing but pain, vexation, and disappointment.

But, above all, in the days of our youth, the mind and the memory, with which we have been endowed by the Almighty, are then all fresh, alive, and vigorous. Alas! we seldom think what an astonishing gift is that understanding which we enjoy-the bright light that God has kindled within us—until our old age comes, when we find that that understanding is wearing away, and that light becoming dim. Then shall we feel bitterly, most bitterly, what it is to bave enjoyed, in the days of our youth, that privilege which seems to be withheld from all the animals by whom we are surrounded—even the privilege of knowing that there is a God; the privilege even of barely thinking upon such a Being; but more than that, the privilege of studying and understanding the astonishing variety of his works, of observing the ways of his providence, of admiring his power, his wisdom, and his goodness; the power of acquiring knowledge of a thousand different kinds, and the power of laying it up in our memory, and using it when we please; and this in the days of our youth, when the mind is all on fire, brisk, clear, and powerful, and when we actually seem to take knowledge by force, and when the memory is large and spacious, so as to admit and contain the good things that we learn; and where the place that should be filled by knowledge has not yet been preoccupied by crimes, by sorrows, and anxieties.


There is the yoke of pride; and who has not felt its weight? There is scarcely a day of our lives in which our pride is not hurt. Sometimes we meet with direct affront; at other times, we do not think we are treated with the respect we deserve; at other times, we find that people do not entertain the opinion of us which we would wish them to hold; but, above all, how often do we find ourselves lowered in our own opinion ! and then the yoke of pride becomes more uneasy by our endeavors to regain our own good opinion, and to hide the real state of the case from our conscience.

But the Christian's yoke is humility; its very nature depends upon humility : for no one has submitted to the service of Christ, or become his disciple, until fully sensible of his own unworthiness, and, consequently, of his want of the merits of a Redeemer. Thus has the Christian become acquainted with the plague of his own heart—his sin has been often before him; and, however deeply he may lament its guilt, he has lost that blind and haughty selfsufficiency that makes him uneasy at the neglect of others, or afraid to stand the scrutiny of self-examination.

There is the yoke of debauchery and sensuality—that galling yoke which even those who wear it cannot bear to think upon ; and, therefore, they still continue to plunge into drunkenness and profligacy, lest they should have time to think on their lost and disgraceful situation. Those miserable men, when the carousal and the debauch are over, then begin to feel the weight and the wretchedness of the yoke that they are bearing. They then feel what it is to load their bodies with pain and disease, and their everlasting souls with every foul and sinful thought; to have brutalized their nature, or to have sunk it by intoxication, into a state of which brutes seem incapable; and they then feel the weight of their yoke, when this indulgence has put them into such a state of madness and insensibility that they may commit a crime which will be the yoke and the burden of their consciences for the rest of their lives. Is it necessary to compare the Christian yoke with this? We will not disgrace it by naming it in the same breath.

Then there is the yoke of covetousness: and who does not know

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