And her head was on his breast where she smiled as one

"Ring," she cried, "O vesper-bell in the beechwood's old chapelle,

But the passing-bell rings best!"

They have caught out at the rein which Sir Guy threw loose-in vain,

Toll slowly.

For the horse in stark despair, with his front hoofs poised in air

On the last verge rears amain.

Now he hangs, he rocks between, and his nostrils curdle

Now he shivers head and hoof, and the flakes of foam. fall off,

And his face grows fierce and thin :

And a look of human woe from his staring eyes did go,

Toll slowly.

And a sharp cry uttered he, in a foretold agony
Of the headlong death below,

And, "Ring, ring, thou passing-bell," still she cried, “i' the old chapelle!"

Toll slowly.

Then back-toppling, crashing back- a dead weight flung out to wrack,

Horse and riders overfell.

- E. B. BROWNING.

17.

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE
AT CORUNNA.

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corpse to the ramparts 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 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 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.

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 with his glory.

DAY, like our souls, is fiercely dark;

What then? 'Tis day!

We sleep no more; the cock crows - hark!
To arms! away!

They come ! they come! the knell is rung
Of us or them;

Wide o'er their march the pomp is flung
Of gold and gem.

What collared hound of lawless sway,

What pensioned slave of Attila,

Leads in the rear?

Come they from Scythian wilds afar,

Our blood to spill?

Wear they the livery of the Czar ?

They do his will.

Nor tasselled silk, nor epaulette,

Nor plume, nor torse

H

No splendor gilds, all sternly met,
Our foot and horse.

But, dark and still, we inly glow,
Condensed in ire!

Strike, tawdry slaves, and ye shall know

Our gloom is fire.

In vain your pomp, ye evil

Insults the land;

powers,

Wrongs, vengeance, and the cause are ours,

And God's right hand!
Madmen! they trample into snakes
The wormy clod!

Like fire, beneath their feet awakes
The sword of God!

Behind, before, above, below,

They rouse the brave;

Where'er they go, they make a foe,

Or find a grave.

- EBENEZER ELLIOTT.

19.

THE WAR-SONG OF DINAS VAWR.

THE mountain sheep are sweeter,

But the valley sheep are fatter;
We therefore deemed it meeter

To carry off the latter.

We made an expedition;
We met an host and quelled it;
We forced a strong position,
And killed the men who held it.

On Dyfed's richest valley,
Where herds of kine were browsing,
We made a mighty sally,

To furnish our carousing.

Fierce warriors rushed to meet us;
We met them, and o'erthrew them :
They struggled hard to beat us;
But we conquered them, and slew them.

As we drove our prize at leisure,
The king marched forth to catch us :
His rage surpassed all measure,

But his people could not match us.
He fled to his hall-pillars;

And, ere our force we led off,
Some sacked his house and cellars,
While others cut his head off.
We there, in strife bewildering,
Spilt blood enough to swim in :
We orphaned many children,
And widowed many women.
The eagles and the ravens
We glutted with our foemen :
The heroes and the cravens,

The spearmen and the bowmen.

And much their land bemoaned them,

Two thousand head of cattle,

And the head of him who owned them:

Ednyfed, King of Dyfed,

His head was borne before us;

His wine and beasts supplied our feasts,

And his overthrow, our chorus.