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 ;
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 enclosed his breast,

Not 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 steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

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
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.

I supplicate for thy controul,
But in the quietness of thought:
Me this uncharter'd freedom tires;

I feel the weight of chance desires :

My hopes no more must change their name;
I long for a repose which ever is the same.

Stern lawgiver! yet thou dost wear
The Godhead's most benignant grace;
Nor know we anything so fair

As is the smile upon thy face:

Flowers laugh before thee on their beds,
And fragrance in thy footing treads;

Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong;
And the most ancient Heavens, through thee, are fresh

and strong.

To humbler functions, awful Power!
I call thee: I myself commend
Unto thy guidance from this hour;
O let my weakness have an end!
Give unto me, made lowly wise,
The spirit of self-sacrifice;
The confidence of reason give;

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,
To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom,
Their country conquers with their martyrdom
And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind.

Chillon thy prison is a holy place

And thy sad floor an altar, for 't was trod,
Until his very steps have left a trace
Worn as if thy cold pavement were a sod,

By Bonnivard! May none those marks efface!
For they appeal from tyranny to God.

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,
They were thy chosen music, Liberty!

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,
And Ocean bellow from his rocky shore,
And neither awful Voice be heard by Thee!
W. Wordsworth

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,
Venice, the eldest child of liberty.

She was a maiden city, bright and free;
No guile seduced, no force could violate;
And when she took unto herself a mate,
She must espouse the everlasting Sea.

And what if she had seen those glories fade,
Those titles vanish, and that strength decay, —
Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid

worth

When her long life hath reach'd its final day:
Men are we, and must grieve when even the shade
Of that which once was great has pass'd away.
W. Wordsworth

CCXII

LONDOŃ, MDCCCII

FRIEND! I know not which way I must look
For comfort, being, as I am, opprest

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
In the open sunshine, or we are unblest;
The wealthiest man among us is the best:
No grandeur now in Nature or in book

Delights us. Rapine, avarice, expense,

This is idolatry; and these we adore :
Plain living and high thinking are no more:

The homely beauty of the good old cause
Is gone; our peace, our fearful innocence,
And pure religion breathing household laws.
W. Wordsworth

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
Of inward happiness. We are selfish men:
O! raise us up, return to us again;

And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.

Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart:
Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea,
Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free;

So didst thou travel on life's common way
In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart
The lowliest duties on herself did lay.

W. Wordsworth.