In short, I scarce could count a minute, 115 Ere the bright dome, and all within it, Kings, fiddlers, emperors, all were goneAnd nothing now was seen or heard But the bright river, rushing on, Happy as an enfranchis'd bird, 120 And prouder of that natural ray, Shining along its chainless wayMore proudly happy thus to glide In simple grandeur to the sea, Such is my dream-and, I confess, That Spanish dance-that southern beam130 But I say nothing-there's my dreamAnd Madame Krudener, the she-prophet, May make just what she pleases of it. CHARLES WOLFE (1791-1823) Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, 5 We buried him darkly at dead of night, 10 No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound But he lay like a warrior taking his rest Few and short were the prayers we said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow; 15 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, 20 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. How fled what moonshine faintly show'd! 215 How fled the earth beneath their feet, 220 "No room for me?"-"Enough for both; 225 Speed, speed, my barb, thy course!" O'er thundering bridge, through boiling 230 "Dost fear? dost fear? The moon shines clear, And well the dead can ride; Does faithful Helen fear for them?""O leave in peace the dead!" "Barb! barb! methinks I hear the cock; Barb! barb! I smell the morning air; Tramp! tramp! along the land they rode, The scourge is red, the spur drops blood, "Hurrah! hurrah! well ride the dead; And soon we reach the bridal bed, Reluctant on its rusty hinge 235 And by the pale moon's setting beam |