CCXVIII

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE AT

CORUNNA

OT a drum was heard, not a funeral note,

N°

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!

gone

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's
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 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

CCXIX

SIMON LEE, THE OLD HUNTSMAN

N the sweet shire of Cardigan,

An old man dwells, a little man,
I've heard he once was tall.
Full five-and-thirty years he lived
A running huntsman merry;
And still the centre of his cheek
Is red as a ripe cherry.

No man like him the horn could sound,
And hill and valley rang with glee,

When Echo bandied round and round

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 often, ere the chase was done,
He reel'd and was stone-blind.

And still there's something in the world
At which his heart rejoices;

For when the chiming hounds are out,
He dearly loves their voices.

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
Dwells in the Hall of Ivor;

Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead;

He is the sole survivor.

And he is lean and he is sick,
His body dwindled and awry

Rests upon ankles swoln and thick;

His legs are thin and dry.

He has no son, he has no child;

His wife, an aged woman,

Lives with him, near the waterfall,

Upon the village common.

Beside their moss-grown hut of clay,
Not twenty paces from the door,
A scrap of land they have, but they
Are poorest of the poor.

This scrap of land he from the heath
Enclosed when he was stronger;
But what avails the land to them
Which he can till no longer?

Oft, working by her husband's side,
Ruth does what Simon cannot do ;
For she, with scanty cause for pride,
Is stouter of the two.

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,
And now I fear that you expect
Some tale will be related.

O reader! had you in your mind
Such stores as silent thought can bring,
O gentle reader! you would find

A tale in everything.

What more I have to say is short,

And you must kindly take it :
It is no tale; but should you think,
Perhaps a tale you'll make it.

One summer-day I chanced to see
This old man doing all he could
To unearth the root of an old tree,
A stump of rotten wood.

The mattock totter'd in his hand;

So vain was his endeavour

That at the root of the old tree

He might have work'd for ever.

'You 're overtask'd, good Simon Lee,
Give me your tool,' to him I said;
And at the word right gladly he
Received my proffer'd aid.

I struck, and with a single blow
The tangled root I sever'd,

At which the poor old man so long
And vainly had endeavour'd.

The tears into his eyes were brought,
And thanks and praises seem'd to run
So fast out of his heart, I thought
They never would have done,

- I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds

With coldness still returning;

Alas! the gratitude of men

Has oftener left me mourning.

W. Wordsworth

CCXX

THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES

HAVE had playmates, I have had companions

I days;

All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I have been laughing, I have been carousing, Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies; All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.