112

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.

96. THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,

As his corpse 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,

Not in sheet or 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 that was 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.

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.

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.

WOLFE.

112

97. VILLAGE CHILDREN.

A BAND of village children, hand in hand,
Came speeding lightly on the way he walked;
Gladdening the sunshine, gleaming in the shade,
Hither and thither, backwards and forwards, swaying,
Graceful as wild flowers with light breezes playing—
They came in all their innocent glee-a sight
To charm grey autumn with a dream of spring.
And as they wandered, flowed their happy thoughts
In streams of rippling smiles, with bubble-bursts
Of tiny laughter, into the still air.

WHITMORE.

98. SPRING.

Now the lusty spring is seen;
Golden yellow, gaudy blue,
Daintily invite the view.
Everywhere, on every green,
Roses blushing as they blow,
And enticing men to pull;
Lilies whiter than the snow;
Woodbines of 'sweet honey full.

BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER

114

THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM.

99. THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM.

Ir was a summer evening,

Old Kaspar's work was done,
And he before his cottage door
Was sitting in the sun,

And by him sported on the green
His little grandchild Wilhelmine.

She saw her brother Peterkin
Roll something large and round,
That he beside the rivulet

In playing there had found;
He came to ask what he had found,
That was so large, and smooth, and round.

Old Kaspar took it from the boy,
Who stood expectant by;

And then the old man shook his head,
And with a natural sigh,

""Tis some poor fellow's skull," said he,
"Who fell in the great victory.

"I find them in the garden,
For there's many hereabout
And often when I go to plough,
The ploughshare turns them out!
For many thousand men," said he,
"Were slain in that great victory."

"Now tell us what 'twas all about,"
Young Peterkin, he cries;
And little Wilhelmine looks up
With wonder-waiting eyes;
"Now tell us all about the war,
And what they fought each other for."

THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM.

"It was the English," Kaspar cried,
"Who put the French to rout t;
But what they fought each other for,
I could not well make out;
But every body said," quoth he,
"That 'twas a famous victory.

"My father lived at Blenheim then,
Yon little stream hard by;
They burnt his dwelling to the ground,
And he was forced to fly;

So with his wife and child he fled,
Nor had he where to rest his head.

"With fire and sword, the country round
Was wasted far and wide,

And many a childing mother then,
And new-born baby died;

But things like that, you know, must be
At every famous victory.

"They say, it was a shocking sight
After the field was won;
For many thousand bodies here

Lay rotting in the sun;

But things like that, you know, must be

After a famous victory.

"Great praise the Duke of Malboro' won,

And our good Prince Eugene." "Why, 'twas a very wicked thing ""

Said little Wilhelmine.

"Nay.. nay.. my little girl," quoth he, "It was a famous victory.

115

116

THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM.

"And everybody praised the Duke,
Who this great fight did win."
"But what good came of it at last?”
Quoth little Peterkin.

66 Why that I cannot tell," said he,
"But 'twas a famous victory."

SOUTHEY.

100. AN ITALIAN SONG.

DEAR is my little native vale,

The ring-dove builds and murmurs there; Close by my cot she tells her tale

To every passing villager.

The squirrel leaps from tree to tree,

And shells his nuts at liberty.

In orange groves and myrtle bowers,

That breathe a gale of fragrance round,
I charm the fairy-footed hours

With my loved lute's romantic sound;
Or crowns of living laurel weave
For those that win the race at eve.

The shepherd's horn at break of day,
The ballet danced in twilight glade,
The canzonet and roundelay

Sung in the silent greenwood shade
These simple joys that never fail,

Shall bind me to my native vale.

;

ROGERS.