But things like that, you know, must be "Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won 66 Nay-nay-my little girl," quoth he, "And every body praised the Duke "Why that I cannot tell," said he, "But 'twas a famous victory." R. SOUTHEY. 217. PRO PATRIA MORI. When he who adores thee has left but the name O! say wilt thou weep, when they darken the fame Yes, weep, and however my foes may condemn, For, Heaven can witness, though guilty to them, With thee were the dreams of my earliest love; In my last humble prayer to the Spirit above O! blest are the lovers and friends who shall live But the next dearest blessing that Heaven can give Is the pride of thus dying for thee. T. MOORE. 218. THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, We buried him darkly at dead of night, No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him : Few and short were the prayers we said But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, We thought as we hollow'd 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 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 stoneBut we left him alone with his glory. C. WOLFE. 219. SIMON LEE THE OLD HUNTSMAN. In the sweet shire of Cardigan, No man like him the horn could sound, The halloo of Simon Lee. In those proud days he little cared For husbandry or tillage; To blither tasks did Simon rouse The sleepers of the village. He all the country could outrun, Could leave both man and horse behind; And still there's something in the world At which his heart rejoices; For when the chiming hounds are out, But O the heavy change!-bereft Of health, strength, friends and kindred, see Old Simon to the world is left In liveried poverty: His master's dead, and no one now Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead : And he is lean and he is sick, Rests upon ankles swoln and thick; He has no son, he has no child; Lives with him, near the waterfall, Beside their moss-grown hut of clay, This scrap of land he from the heath Oft, working by her husband's side, And, though you with your utmost skill From labour could not wean them, 'Tis little, very little, all That they can do between them. Few months of life has he in store As he to you will tell, For still, the more he works, the more Do his weak ankles swell. My gentle reader, I perceive How patiently you've waited, O reader! had you in your mind A tale in everything. What more I have to say is short, It is no tale; but, should you think, One summer-day I chanced to see The mattock totter'd in his hand; That at the root of the old tree "You're overtask'd, good Simon Lee, I struck, and with a single blow At which the poor old man so long The tears into his eyes were brought, And thanks and praises seem'd to run |