CCXVIII THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE AT CORUNNA OT a drum was heard, not a funeral note, NOT As his corpse to the rampart we hurried ; We buried him darkly at dead of night, No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him; Few and short were the prayers we said 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 little he 'll reck, if they let him sleep on I supplicate for thy controul, I feel the weight of chance desires : My hopes no more must change their name; Stern lawgiver! yet thou dost wear As is the smile upon thy face: Flowers laugh before thee on their beds, Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong; and strong. To humbler functions, awful Power! And in the light of Truth thy bondman let me live. W. Wordsworth E CCIX ON THE CASTLE OF CHILLON TERNAL Spirit of the chainless Mind! Brightest in dungeons, Liberty, thou art— For there thy habitation is the heart The heart which love of Thee alone can bind; And when thy sons to fetters are consign'd, Chillon thy prison is a holy place And thy sad floor an altar, for 't was trod, By Bonnivard! May none those marks efface! Lord Byron CCX ENGLAND AND SWITZERLAND 1802 WO Voices are there, one is of the Sea, Two One of the Mountains, each a mighty voice: In both from age to age thou didst rejoice, There came a tyrant, and with holy glee Thou fought'st against him, — but hast vainly striven: Thou from thy Alpine holds at length art driven Where not a torrent murmurs heard by thee. - Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft ; Then cleave, O cleave to that which still is leftFor, high-soul'd Maid, what sorrow would it be That Mountain floods should thunder as before, CCXI ON THE EXTINCTION OF THE VENETIAN REPUBLIC. NCE did She hold the gorgeous East in fee Of Venice did not fall below her birth, She was a maiden city, bright and free; And what if she had seen those glories fade, worth When her long life hath reach'd its final day: CCXII LONDOŃ, MDCCCII FRIEND! I know not which way I must look To think that now our life is only drest For show; mean handiwork of craftsman, cook, Or groom! We must run glittering like a brook Delights us. Rapine, avarice, expense, This is idolatry; and these we adore : The homely beauty of the good old cause CCXIII THE SAME ILTON! thou shouldst be living at this, hour: England hath need of thee: she is a fen Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen, Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower, Have forfeited their ancient English dower And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power. Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart: So didst thou travel on life's common way W. Wordsworth. |