And the midnight moon is weaving Her bright chain o'er the deep; So the spirit bows before thee, With a full but soft emotion, Like the swell of summer's ocean. CLXVII. H! snatched away in beauty's bloom, OH On thee shall press no ponderous tomb; But on thy turf shall roses rear Their leaves, the earliest of the year; And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom : And oft by yon blue gushing stream Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head, And feed deep thought with many a dream, And lingering pause and lightly tread; Fond wretch! as if her step disturbed the dead! Away! we know that tears are vain, That death nor heeds nor hears distress: Will this unteach us to complain? Or make one mourner weep the less? And thou-who tell'st me to forget, Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet. CLXVIII. CHARLES Wolfe, 1791-1823. SONG. F I had thought thou could'st have died, IF I might not weep for thee; That thou could'st mortal be; And I on thee should look my last, And still upon that face I look, But when I speak-thou dost not say, What thou ne'er left'st unsaid, And now I feel, as well I may, Sweet Mary! thou art dead! If thou would'st stay, e'en as thou art, I still might press thy silent heart, And where thy smiles have been ! I do not think, where'er thou art, And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart, Yet there was round thee such a dawn As fancy never could have drawn, CLXIX. THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. OT a drum was heard, not a funeral note, NOT As his corse 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, By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Not in sheet or 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, But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, 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. |