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Their name, their years, spelt by the unletter'd Muse,
The place of fame and elegy supply ;
And many a holy text around she strews,
That teach the rustic moralist to die.
For who, to dumb Forgetfulness a prey,
This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd,
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind ?
On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
Some pious drops the closing eye requires ;
Even from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,
Even in our ashes live their wonted fires.
For thee, who, mindful of the unhonour'd Dead,
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;
If chance, by lonely contemplation led,
Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,
Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,
• Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn,
• Brushing, with hasty steps, the dews away,
" To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.
• There at the foot of yonder nodding beech,
· That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,
* His listless length at noontide would he stretch,
And

pore upon the brook that babbles by.
• Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,
· Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove;
• Now drooping, woful wan, like one forlorn,
• Or craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless love.
• One morn I miss'd him on the accustom'd hill,

Along the heath, and near his favourite tree; ' Another came; nor yet beside the rill,

Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he: • The next, with dirges due, in sad array, Slow through the churchway path we saw him borne ; Approach, and read (for thou canst read) the lay, • Gravid on the stone, beneath yon aged thorn.'

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THE EPITAPH.

Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth,
A Youth, to Fortune and to Fame unknown :
Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth,
And Melancholy mark’d him for her own.
Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,
Heaven did a recompense as largely send;
He gave to Misery all he had a tear;
He gain'd from Heav'n ('twas all he wisb’d) a friend.

Nor farther seek his merits to disclose,
Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,
(There they alike in trembling hope repose,)
The bosom of his Father and his God.

GRAY.

VIII.-BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. Nor a drum was heard, not a funeral note,

As his corpse to the rampart we hurried ; Not a soldier discharg'd 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 enclos'd his breast,

Nor 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 stedfastly gaz’d on the face that was 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 carv'd not a line, and we rais'd not a stoneBut we left him alone with his glory.

Rev. C. WOLFE.

IX.—THE DEATH OF SENNACHERIB. The Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold, And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee !

Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green,
That host with their banners at sunset were seen :
Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown,
That host on the morrow lay wither'd and strown.
For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And breath'd in the face of the foe as he pass'd ;
And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heav'd, and for ever were still.
And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
But through it there roll'd not the breath of his pride:
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.
And there lay the rider, distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail !
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown!
And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal ;
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord !

BYRON.

X.-BIRDS OF PASSAGE.
Birds, joyous birds of the wandering wing:
Whence is it ye come with the flowers of spring ?

“We come from the shores of the green old Nile,
From the land where the roses of Sharon smile,
From the palms that wave through the Indian sky,
From the myrrh-trees of glowing Araby.
“We have swept o'er cities in song renown'd, -
Silent they lie with the deserts round !
We have cross'd proud rivers, whose tide hath rolld
All dark with the warrior-blood of old;
And each worn wing hath regain’d its home,
Under peasant's roof-tree or monarch's dome.”
And what have ye found in the monarch's dome,
Since last ye travers'd the blue sea's foam ?

-“We have found a change, we have found a pall,
And a gloom o'ershadowing the banquet's hall,
And a mark on the floor as of life-drops spilt,-
Nought looks the same, save the nest we built !"
Oh! joyous birds, it hath still been so;
Through the halls of kings doth the tempest go!--
But the huts of the hamlet lie still and deep,
And the hills o'er their quiet a vigil keep ;-
Say what have ye found in the peasant's cot,
Since last ye parted from that sweet spot ?

.“ A change we have found there and many a change! Faces, and footsteps, and all things strange! Gone are the heads of the silvery hair, And the young that were have a brow of care, And the place is hush'd where the children play'dNought looks the same, save the nest we made." Sad is your tale of the beautiful earth, Birds that o'ersweep it in power and mirth! Yet, through the wastes of the trackless air, Ye have a Guide, and shall we despair ? Ye over desert and deep have pass'd, So may we attain our bright home at last !

MRS HEMANS.

XI.-MELODIES OF MORN.
But who the melodies of morn can tell ?
The wild-brook babbling down the mountain side;
The lowing herd; the sheepfold's simple bell ;
The pipe of early shepherd dim descried
In the lone valley ; echoing far and wide
The clamorous horn along the cliffs above ;
The hollow murmur of the ocean-tide;

The hum of bees, and linnet's lay of love,
And the full choir that wakes the universal grove.

The cottage-curs at early pilgrim bark
Crown'd with her pail the tripping milkmaid sings ;
The whistling ploughman stalks a-field ; and, hark !
Down the rough slope the ponderous waggon rings;
Through rustling corn the hare astonish'd springs ;
Slow tolls the village clock the drowsy hour;
The partridge bursts away on whirring wings ;

Deep mourns the turtle in sequester'd bower,
And shrill lark carols clear from her aerial tower.

BEATTIE.

XII.-TO A SKYLARK.
ETHEREAL Minstrel ! pilgrim of the sky !
Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound ?
Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and eye
Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground?
Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will,
Those quivering wings compos’d, that music still !
To the last point of vision, and beyond,
Mount, daring warbler !—that love-prompted strain
('Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond)
Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain :
Yet mightst thou seem, proud privilege, to sing
All independent of the leafy spring.

Leave to the nightingale her shady wood ;
A privacy of glorious light is thine ;
Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood
Of harmony, with rapture more divine :
Type of the wise who soar, but never roam;
True to the kindred points of heaven and home!

WORDSWORTH

Bird of the wilderness,

Blithesome and cumberless,
Light be thy matin o'er moorland and lea!

Emblem of happiness!

Blest is thy dwelling-place! 0! to abide in the desert with thee.

Wild is thy lay and loud

Far in the downy cloud;
Love gives it energy-love gave it birth ;

Where, on thy dewy wing,

Where art thou journeying ?
Thy lay is in heaven,-thy love is on earth.

O'er fell and fountain sheen,

O'er moor and mountain green, O'er the red streamer that heralds the day;

Over the cloudlet dim,

Over the rainbow's rim, Musical cherub, hie—hie thee away!

Then when the gloaming comes,

Low in the heather blooms,
Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be!

Emblem of happiness!

Bless'd is thy dwelling-place ! 0! to abide in the desert with thee!

HOGG.

XIII.-LOCHINVAR.
O, YOUNG Lochinvar is come out of the west,
Through all the wide Border his steed was the best ;
And save his good broadsword he weapon had none,
He rode all unarn. d, and he rode all alone.
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.
He stay'd not for brake, and he stopp'd not for stone,
He swam the Esk river where ford there was none:
But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate,
The bride had consented, the gallant came late :
For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,
Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.

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