CHARLES WOLFE.
BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.
[See single-sheet "Poetical Broadsides," Vol. II. British Museum.]
Not a drum was heard, nor a funeral note,
As his corse to the ramparts 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 turf with our bayonets turning;
By the straggling moonbeams' misty light,
And our lanterns dimly burning.
Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
No useless coffin confined his breast,
Nor in sheet nor in shroud we bound him,
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him.
We thought, as we heaped 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 nothing he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.
But half our heavy task was done,
When the clock told the hour for retiring; And we heard by the distant and random gun That the foe was suddenly firing.
Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, we raised not a stone, But we left him alone with his glory.
Verse-a breeze 'mid blossoms straying,
Where Hope clung, feeding, like a bee-
Both were mine! Life went a-maying
With Nature, Hope, and Poesy,
When I was young!
When I was young?-Ah, woful when !
Ah! for the change 'twixt Now and Then!
This breathing House, not built with hands;
This body, that does me grievous wrong,
O'er airy cliffs and glittering sands,
How lightly then it flashed along.-
Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore,
On winding lakes and rivers wide,
That ask no aid of sail or oar,
That fear no spite of wind or tide!
Nought cared this body for wind or weather, When Youth and I lived in it together.
Flowers are lovely; Love is flower-like;
Friendship is a sheltering tree;
O the joys, that came down shower-like,
Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty,
Ere I was old!
Ere I was old?—Ah, woful Ere,
Which tells me, Youth's no longer here!
O Youth for years so many and sweet
"Tis known that thou and I were one,
I'll think it but a fond conceit-
It cannot be, that thou art gone!
Thy vesper-bell hath not yet tolled-
And thou wert aye a masker bold!
What strange disguise hast now put on,
To make believe that thou art gone?
I see these locks in silvery slips,
This drooping gait, this altered size;
But springtide blossoms on thy lips,
And tears take sunshine from thine eyes!
Life is but thought; so think I will
That Youth and I are house-mates still.
Dew-drops are the gems of morning,
But the tears of mournful eve!
Where no hope is, life's a warning
That only serves to make us grieve
When we are old:
That only serves to make us grieve
With oft and tedious taking leave,
Like some poor nigh-related guest,
That may not rudely be dismissed,
Yet hath outstayed his welcome while,
And tells the jest without the smile.
Tell me on what holy ground
May Domestic Peace be found?
Halcyon daughter of the skies!
Far on fearful wings she flies
From the pomp of sceptred state
From the rebel's noisy hate.
In a cottaged vale she dwells,
Listening to the Sabbath bells!
Still around her steps are seen
Spotless honour's meeker mien,
Love, the sire of pleasing fears,
Sorrow, smiling through her tears,
And, conscious of the past employ,
Memory, bosom-spring of joy.
From-CHRISTABEL.
A little child, a limber elf,
Singing, dancing to itself,
A fairy thing with red round cheeks,
That always finds, and never seeks,
Makes such a vision to the sight
As fills a father's eyes with light;
And pleasures flow in so thick and fast
Upon his heart, that he at last
Must needs express his love's excess
With words of unmeant bitterness.
Perhaps 'tis pretty to force together
Thoughts so all unlike each other; . .
Perhaps 'tis tender, too, and pretty,
At each wild word to feel within
A sweet recoil of love and pity. .
DUTY SURVIVING SELF-LOVE.
The only sure Friend of Declining Life.
Unchanged within to see all changed without,
Is a blank lot, and hard to bear, no doubt.
Yet why at others' wanings shouldst thou fret?
Then only might'st thou feel a just regret
Hadst thou withheld thy love, or hid thy light
In selfish forethought of neglect and slight.
O wiselier then, from feeble yearnings freed,
While, and on whom thou may'st-shine on! nor heed
Whether the object by reflected light
Return thy radiance or absorb it quite;
And though thou notest from thy safe recess
Old friends burn dim, like lamps in noisome air,
Love them for what they are; nor love them less,
Because to thee they are not what they were.
From THE ANTIENT MARINER.
He prayeth best who loveth best
All things both great and small;
For the dear God who loveth us,
He made and loveth all.
Employed on Divine Subjects.
The truant Fancy was a wanderer ever,—
A lone enthusiast maid. She loves to walk
In the bright visions of empyreal light,
By the green pastures, and the fragrant meads,
Where the perpetual flowers of Eden blow.
By crystal streams, and by the living waters,
Along whose margin grows the wondrous Tree
Whose leaves shall heal the nations; underneath
Whose holy shade a refuge shall be found,
From pain and want, and all the ills that wait
On mortal life, from sin and death for ever.
A timid grace sits trembling in her eye,
As loth to meet the rudeness of men's sight,
Yet shedding a delicious lunar light,
Speaking most plain the thoughts which do possess
Her gentle spirit-peace and meek quietness,
And innocent loves, and maiden purity,
A look whereof might heal the cruel smart
Of chang-ed friends, or fortune's wrongs unkind.
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