The redbreast oft, at evening hours, When howling winds and beating rain The tender thought on thee shall dwell. Each lonely scene shall thee restore, For thee the tear be duly shed; Beloved till life can charm no more, And mourned till pity's self be dead. WILLIAM COLLINS. Bridal Song and Wirge. A CYPRESS-BOUGH and a rose-wreath sweet, A wedding-robe and a winding-sheet, A bridal-bed and a bier! Thine be the kisses, maid, And smiling love's alarms; And thou, pale youth, be laid Death and Hymen both are here. Now tremble dimples on your cheek - By her the bridegod fair, In youthful power and force; By him the grizard bare, Pale knight on a pale horse, Death and Hymen both are here. THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES. 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 inclosed 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 bitterly thought of the morrow. We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed, 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 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. |