THE MURDERED TRAVELLER. The red-bird warbled, as he wrought But there was weeping far away; They little knew, who loved him so, Nor how, when round the frosty pole 119 Nor how, when strangers found his bones, They dress'd the hasty bier, And mark'd his grave with nameless stones, Unmoisten'd by a tear. But long they look'd, and fear'd, and wept And dream'd, and started, as they slept, Long, long they look'd-but never spied His welcome step again; Nor knew the fearful death he died Far down that narrow glen. BRYANT. THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. NOT a drum was heard-nor a funeral note- We buried him darkly at dead of night, 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, TRUE-HEARTEDNESS. 121 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 the 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 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-we raised not a stoneBut we left him alone in his glory. WOLFE. TRUE-HEARTEDNESS. TELL me not of sparkling gems, You may boast your diamonds rare, M But there's a peerless gem on earth, Bring the tulip and the rose, But there's a flower that still is found, It is, it is the heart that's true. Ardent in its earliest tie, Love and Friendship, godlike pair, Cannot warp the heart that's true. ELIZA COOK. HEAVENLY INFLUENCE. LIKE morning, when her early breeze up. That in those furrows, dark with night, Thy Grace can send its breathings o'er Till David touch'd his sacred lyre, So sleeps the soul, till Thou, O Lord, Shalt deign to touch its lifeless chordTill, waked by Thee, its breath shall rise In music worthy of the skies! T. MOORE. |