THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.

BY THE REV. C. WOLFE.

[THE Rev. C. WOLFE was born in Dublin, in 1791. He was educated at Hyde Abbey School, Winchester, and at Trinity College, Dublin. In 1817 he took orders, and obtained the curacy of Ballyclog, in Tyrone, and afterwards, that of Donoughmore. His incessant attention to his duties hurried him to an early grave. He died of consumption in the year 1823. He may be said to have achieved literary immortality by one short poem, the wellknown “Ode on the Death of Sir John Moore," pronounced by Lord Byron to be "the most perfect ode in the language."]

NOT a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
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 sod with our bayonets turning,
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Nor in sheet nor in shroud we bound 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 of the dead, And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed,

And smooth'd 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.

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 stone

But we left him alone in his glory!

THE NIGHT BEFORE WATERLOO.

BY LORD BYRON.

[LORD BYRON, the only son of Captain John Byron of the Guards, and Catherine Gordon of Gight, an Aberdeenshire heiress, was born in Holles Street, London, on the 22d of January, 1788. His mother's fortune having been squandered by her profligate husband, she retired, with a small annuity, to the city of Aberdeen. Here the young poet received the usual education which a Scottish city can furnish. On the death of his grand-uncle in 1798, the "little lame boy" succeeded to the family honours and estates. In 1804 he went to Cambridge, where he pursued a very desultory course of study. In 1807 he took up his abode at Newstead Abbey, and soon after published his "Hours of Idleness." This collection was fiercely assailed by a critique in the "Edinburgh Review," which was replied to by the young poet in a vigorous satire, entitled " English Bards and Scotch Reviewers." About this time he received a severe disappointment in seeing Mary Chaworth, for whom he had conceived a deep affection, married to another. His course of life was now one of dissipation and extravagance. To rescue himself from the temptations by which he was surrounded, he left England for a course of foreign travel, visiting, with much delight, the classic lands of Greece and Italy. In the spring of 1812 appeared the first two cantos of "Childe Harold," which were followed by a rapid succession of Eastern tales. In January, 1815, he married Miss Milbanke, daughter of Sir Ralph Milbanke, of the county of Durham; but the marriage was not productive of happiness and after the birth of a daughter (afterwards Countess of Lovelace) they separated. The poet once more left England, and visited the most celebrated parts of the south of Europe. While engaged in travelling from place to place, he wrote many poems and tragedies. In 1823 he set sail for Greece, to assist in the struggle for its independence. While at Missolonghi, engaged in the difficult task of restoring order, he was attacked by a fever, which caused his death. This took place on the 19th of April, 1824, in the thirty-seventh year of his age.]

THERE was a sound of revelry by night,
And Belgium's capital had gather'd then
Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and bright

The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men;

A thousand hearts beat happily; and when

Music arose with its voluptuous swell,

Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake again,

And all went merry as a marriage bell;

But hush hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell !

Did ye not hear it?-No; 'twas but the wind,

Or the car rattling o'er the stony street.

On with the dance! let joy be unconfined;

No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet
To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet-
But hark! that heavy sound breaks in once more,