LXXIV THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, We buried him darkly at dead of night, 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, 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. 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! LXXV ODE. How sleep the brave, who sink to rest, By fairy hands their knell is rung, WOLFE. There Honour comes, a pilgrim gray, COLLINS. LXXVI CHARADE. (A POET'S NAME.) Come from my First, aye, come! The battle dawn is nigh; And the screaming trump and the thundering drum Are calling thee to die! Fight as thy father fought; Fall as thy father fell: Thy task is taught; thy shroud is wrought; So-forward and farewell! Toll ye my Second! toll! Fling high the flambeau's light! And sing the hymn for a parted soul, Beneath the silent night! A wreath upon his head, The cross upon his breast, Let the prayer be said, and the tear be shed, So take him to his rest! Call ye my Whole; ay, call And let him greet the sable pall Go, call him by his name! To light the flame of a soldier's fame PRAED. LXXVII HOHENLINDEN. On Linden, when the sun was low, But Linden saw another sight, When the drum beat at the dead of night; By torch and trumpet fast arrayed To join the dreadful revelry. Then shook the hills with thunder riven; But redder yet that light shall glow 'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun Shout in their sulphurous canopy. The combat deepens. On, ye Brave, And charge with all thy chivalry! Few, few shall part where many meet! CAMPBELL. |