THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE1

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral-note,
As his corse to the ramparts 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 moonbeams' misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.

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No useless coffin inclosed 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 steadfastly 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, we raised not a stone—
But we left him alone with his glory.

1 Sir John Moore. This brave general was born in 1761. He entered the army in his fifteenth year-distinguished himself in Egypt and the

Wolfe.

West Indies-was commander-inchief during a part of the Peninsular War-fell, in the moment of victory, at Coruña, Jan. 17, 1809.

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THE GOOD TIME COMING.

THE GOOD TIME COMING.

There's a good time coming, boys, a good time coming; We may not live to see the day,

But earth shall glisten in its ray;

Cannon-balls may aid the truth, but Thought's a weapon stronger;

We'll win our battle by its aid-wait a little longer.

There's a good time coming, boys, a good time coming; The pen shall supersede the sword,

And Right, not Might, shall be the lord ;

Worth, not birth, shall rule mankind, and be acknowledged stronger :

The proper impulse has been given-wait a little longer.

There's a good time coming, boys, a good time coming;
War, in all men's eyes, shall be

A monster of iniquity;

Nations shall not quarrel then, to prove which is the stronger,

Nor slaughter men for glory's sake-wait a little longer.

There's a good time coming, boys, a good time coming;
Hateful revelries of creed

Shall not make their martyrs bleed;

Religion shall be shorn of pride, and flourish all the

stronger;

And Charity shall trim her lamp-wait a little longer.

There's a good time coming, boys, a good time coming; And a poor man's family

Shall not be his misery;

Every child shall be a help to make his right arm stronger : The happier he the more he has—wait a little longer.

There's a good time coming, boys, a good time coming; Little children shall not toil

Under or above the soil;

But shall play in healthful fields till limbs and mind grow

stronger;

And every one shall read and write—wait a little longer.

There's a good time coming, boys, a good time coming; The people shall be temperate,

And shall love instead of hate;

They shall use, and not abuse, and make all virtue stronger: The Reformation has begun-wait a little longer.

There's a good time coming, boys, a good time coming; Let us aid it all we can,

Every woman, every man ;

Smallest helps, if rightly given, make the impulse stronger: 'Twill be strong enough one day—wait a little longer. Charles Mackay.

SONG OF OLD TIME.

I wear not the purple of earth-born kings,
Nor the stately ermine1 of lordly things; 2
But monarch and courtier, though great they be,
Must fall from their glory, and bend to me.
My sceptre is gemless; yet who can say
They will not come under its mighty sway?

Ye may learn who I am; there's the passing chime,
And the dial to herald me-Old King Time!

Softly I creep like a thief in the night,
After cheeks all blooming, and eyes all bright;
My steps are seen on the patriarch's brow,
In the deep-worn furrows and locks of snow.
Who laugh at my power? The young and the gay:
But they dream not how closely I track their way.
Wait till their first bright sands have run,

And they will not smile at what Time hath done.

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MARY IN HEAVEN.

I eat through treasures, with moth and rust:
I lay the gorgeous palace in dust ;

I make the shell-proof tower my own,
And break the battlement, stone from stone.
Work on at your cities and temples, proud Man!
Build high as ye may, and strong as ye can;
But the marble shall crumble, the pillar shall fall,
And Time-Old Time-will be King, after all!

1 Ermine, a small animal with a snowwhite fur. The state robes of judges and magistrates are of ermine fur, as an emblem that

Eliza Cook.

they should be pure, that is, incapable of being bribed to do wrong.

2 Things, personages.

MARY IN HEAVEN.1

Thou lingering star! with lessening ray,
That lov'st to greet the early morn,

Again thou usherest in the day

My Mary from my soul was torn.

O Mary! dear departed shade!

Where is thy blissful place of rest?

See'st thou thy lover lowly laid?

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?

That sacred hour can I forget

Can I forget the hallowed grove
Where by the winding Ayr we met,
To live one day of parting love?
Eternity will not efface

Those records dear of transports past;

Thy image at our last embrace

Ah, little thought we 'twas our last!

Ayr gurgling kissed his pebbled shore,

O'erhung with wild woods, thickening, green;

The fragrant birch and hawthorn hoar

Twined amorous round the raptured scene.