And the midnight moon is weaving

Her bright chain o'er the deep;
Whose breast is gently heaving,
As an infant's asleep :

So the spirit bows before thee,
To listen and adore 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;
But I forgot, when by thy side,

That thou could'st mortal be;
It never through my mind had past,
The time would e'er be o'er,

And I on thee should look my last,
And thou should'st smile no more!

And still upon that face I look,
And think 'twill smile again;
And still the thought I will not brook,
That I must look in vain !

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,
All cold, and all serene—

I still might press thy silent heart,

And where thy smiles have been !
While e'en thy chill bleak corse I have,
Thou seemest still mine own;
But there I lay thee in thy grave—
And I am now alone!

I do not think, where'er thou art,
Thou hast forgotten me;

And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart,
In thinking too of thee;

Yet there was round thee such a dawn
Of light ne'er seen before,

As fancy never could have drawn,
And never can restore !

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,
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 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,
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 hollowed 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.

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.