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Of accident disastrous. Hence the limbs
Knit into force; and the same Roman arm
That rose victorious o'er the conquer'd earth,
First learn'd, while tender, to subdue the wave.
Even from the body's purity, the mind
Receives a secret sympathetic aid.

ON THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE,

WHO FELL AT THE BATTLE OF CORUNNA, 1809.

WOLFE.

NOT a drum was heard, nor 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 sods 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 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 of the dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollowed 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 nothing 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 toll'd the hour for retiring;
And we heard by the distant and random
That the foe was suddenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

gun,

From the field of his fame fresh and gory, We carved not a line, we raised not a stone, But we left him alone with his glory.

TO A TUFT OF EARLY VIOLETS.

P. P.

SWEET flowers! that from your humble beds
Thus prematurely dare to rise,
And trust your unprotected heads
To cold Aquarius' wintry skies.

Retire, retire! these turbid airs
Are not the genial brood of May;
That sun, with light malignant glares,
And flatters only to betray.

Stern winter's reign is not yet past—
Lo! while your buds prepare to blow,
On icy pinions comes the blast,

And nips your roots and lays you low.

Alas, for such ungentle doom!
But I will shield you, and supply
A kinder soil on which to bloom,
A nobler bed on which to die.

Come then, ere yet the morning ray

Has drunk the dew that gems your crest, And drawn your balmiest sweets away:

Oh come and grace my Anna's breast!
Ye droop, fond flowers, but did ye know
What worth, what goodness, there reside,
Your cups with liveliest tints would glow,
And spread your leaves with conscious pride.
For there has liberal nature joined

Her riches to the stores of art;
And added to the vigorous mind
The soft, the sympathizing heart.
More bless'd than I-thus shall ye live
Your little day; and when ye die,
Sweet flowers! the grateful muse shall give
A verse; the sorrowing maid, a sigh.

THE RIVULET.

W. CULLEN BRYANT.

THIS little rill, that from the springs
Of yonder grove its current brings,
Plays on the slope awhile, and then
Goes prattling into groves again,
Oft to its warbling waters drew,
My little feet, when life was new.
Then woods in early green were dress'd,
And from the chambers of the west,
The warmer breezes, travelling out,
Breathe the new scent of flowers about.
My truant steps from home would stray,
Upon its grassy side to play,
List the brown thrasher's vernal hymn,
And crop the violet on its brim.
With blooming cheek, and open brow,
As young and gay, sweet rill, as thou.

And when the days of boyhood came, And I had grown in love with fame, Duly I sought thy banks, and tried My first rude numbers by thy side. Words cannot tell how bright and gay The scenes of life before me lay. Then glorious hopes, that now to speak, Would bring the blood into my cheek, Pass'd o'er me, and I wrote, on high, A name I deem'd should never die. Years change thee not. Upon yon hill The tall old maples, verdant still, Yet tell, in grandeur of decay, How swift the years have pass'd away, Since first, a child, and half afraid, I wandered in the forest shade. Thou, ever joyous rivulet

Dost dimple, leap, and prattle yet.

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Thou changest not, but I am changed Since first thy pleasant banks I ranged, And the grave stranger, come to see The play-place of his infancy, Has scarce a single trace of him Who sported once upon thy brim. The visions of my youth are past— Too bright, too beautiful to last, I've tried the world-it wears no more The colouring of romance it wore. Yet well has nature kept the truth She promised to my earliest youth. The radiant beauty, shed abroad On all the glorious works of God, Shows freshly, to my sober'd eye, Each charm it wore in days gone by.

A few brief years shall pass away, And I, all trembling, weak and grey, Bow'd to the earth, which waits to fold My ashes in the embracing mould,

(If haply the dark will of fate,
Indulge my life so long a date),
May come for the last time to look
Upon my childhood's favourite brook.
Then dimly on my eye shall gleam
The sparkle of thy dancing stream,
And faintly on my ear shall fall
The prattling current's merry call;
Yet shalt thou flow as glad and bright
As when thou met'st my infant sight.
And I shall sleep,-and on thy side,
As ages after ages glide,

Children their early sports shall try,
And pass
to hoary age and die.

But thou, unchanged from year to year,
Gaily shalt play and glitter here;
Amid young flowers and tender grass
Thy endless infancy shall pass;
And singing down thy narrow glen,
Shall mock the fading race of men.

"I BROKE THE SPELL THAT HELD ME LONG."

W. C. BRYANT.

I BROKE the spell that held me long,
The dear, dear witchery of song.
I said the poet's idle lore

Shall waste my prime of years no more;
For poetry, though heavenly born,
Consorts with poverty and scorn.

I broke the spell-nor deem'd its power
Could fetter me another hour.
Ah, thoughtless! how could I forget
Its causes were around me yet!
For wheresoe'er I look'd, the while,
Was Nature's everlasting smile.

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