Then Denmark blessed our chief,
That he gave her wounds repose;
And the sounds of joy and grief
From her people wildly rose ;
As death withdrew his shades from the day;
While the sun looked smiling bright
O'er a wide and woeful sight,
Where the fires of funeral light
Died away!

Now joy, old England, raise,
For the tidings of thy might,
By the festal cities' blaze,
While the wine-cup shines in light!
And yet, amidst that joy and uproar,
Let us think of them that sleep,
Full many a fathom deep,
By thy wild and stormy steep,
Elsinore !

Brave hearts ! to Britain's pride
Once so faithful and so true,
On the deck of fame that died,
With the gallant good Riou !
Soft sigh the winds of heaven o'er their grave!
While the billow mournful rolls,
And the mermaid's song condoles,
Singing glory to the souls
Of the brave !

CAMPBELL. DIRGE IN CYMBELINE.

To fair Fidele's grassy tomb

Soft maids and village hinds shall bring Each opening sweet, of earliest bloom,

And rifle all the breathing spring.

No wailing ghost shall dare appear,

To vex with shrieks this quiet grove; But shepherd lads assemble here,

And melting virgins own their love.

No withered witch shall here be seen,

No goblins lead their nightly crew; The female fays shall haunt the green,

And dress thy grave with pearly dew!

The redbreast oft, at evening hours,

Shall kindly lend his little aid,
With hoary moss, and gathered flowers,

To deck the ground where thou art laid !

When howling winds and beating rain

In tempests shake the sylvan cell, Or midst the chase, on every plain,

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.

COLLINS. BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.

a

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,

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 stedfastly 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 by 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

THE ROSE.

THE rose had been washed, just washed in a shower,

Which Mary to Anna conveyed ;
The plentiful moisture encumbered the flower,

And weighed down its beautiful head.

The cup was all filled, and the leaves were all wet,

And it seemed, to a fanciful view,
To weep for the buds it had left with regret

On the flourishing bush where it grew.

I hastily seized it, unfit as it was

For a nosegay, so dripping and drowned, And swinging it rudely, too rudely, alas !

I snapped it: it fell to the ground.

And such, I exclaimed, is the pitiless part

Some act by the delicate mind,
Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart

Already to sorrow resigned.

This elegant rose, had I shaken it less,

Might have bloomed with its owner awhile ; And the tear that is wiped with a little address, May be followed perhaps by a smile.

COWPER.

THE CASTAWAY.

OBSCUREST night involved the sky,

The Atlantic billows roared, When such a destined wretch as I,

Washed headlong from on board, Of friends, of hope, of all bereftHis floating home for ever left.

No braver chief could Albion boast

Than he with whom he went,
Nor ever ship left Albion's coast

With warmer wishes sent.
He loved them both, but both in vain,
Nor him beheld, nor her again.

Not long beneath the whelming brine,

Expert to swim, he lay;
Nor soon he felt his strength decline,

Or courage die away!
But waged with death a lasting strife,
Supported by despair of life.

He shouted: nor his friends had failed

To check the vessel's course :