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Thy proud dark eye will grow less proud, thy step
become less fleet, And vainly shalt thou arch thy neck, thy master's
hand to meet. Only in sleep shall I behold that dark eye glancing
bright; Only in sleep shall hear again that step so firm and
light; And when I raise my dreaming arm, to check or
cheer thy speed, Then must I starting wake to feel, thou’rt sold, my
Arab steed. Ah! rudely then, unseen by me, some cruel hand
may chide, "Till foam-wreaths lie, like crested waves, along thy
panting side, And the rich blood that is in thee, swells in thy
indignant pain; 'Till careless eyes, which rest on thee, may count
each started vein. Will they ill-use thee? If I thought - but no, it
cannot be Thou art so swift, yet easy curb’d, so gentle, yet so
free. And yet, if haply when thou'rt gone, my lonely
heart should yearn, Can the hand which cast thee from it, now command
thee to return. Return, alas ! my Arab steed, what shall thy master do, When thou, who wert his all of joy, hath vanish'd
from his view; When the dim distance cheats mine eye, and through
the gathering tears, Thy bright form for a moment like the false mirage
appears; Slow and unmounted will I roam, with
foot alone, Where with fleet step and joyous bound, thou oft
hast borne me on.
And sitting down by that green well, I'll pause, and
sadly think, It was here he bow'd his glossy neck when last I
saw him drink. When last I saw thee drink? Away! the fever'd
dream is o'er, I could not live a day, and know that we should
meet no more. They tempted me, my beautiful! for hunger's power
is strong, They tempted me, my beautiful! but I have lov'd
too long Who said that I had giv'n thee up? — who said that
thou wert sold ? 'Tis false, 'tis false, my Arab steed, -I fling them
back their gold ; Thus, thus, I leap upon thy back, and scour the
distant plains, Away, who overtakes us now, shall claim thee for his pains.
THE VAIN REGRET.
For what saith Time?
And all that issues out of woe,
Then what saith Time ?
Truths! hardly learn'd and lately brought
From many a far, forgotten scene;
To your voices, sage, serene,
Oh! what might I not have been
TIME moveth not; our being 'tis that moves ;
WELCOME ! sweet time of buds and bloom, renewing
From the cleft soil, like babes from cradle peeping, At the glad light, where soundly they've been
sleeping; Like chickens in their downy coats, just freeing From the chipp'd shell, their new-found active
Now many a thing that pretty is, delays
MRS. J. BAILLIE.
HUMILITY. HUMILITY ! the sweetest, loveliest flower That bloom'd in Paradise, and the first that died, Has rarely blossom'd since on mortal soil. It is so frail, so delicate a thing, 'Tis gone if it but look upon itself; And she who ventures to esteem it hers, Proves by that single thought she has it not. 1
CAROLINE FRY. 1 “ Le plus sage est celui qui ne pense point de l'être. " Boileau.
THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE."
Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corse to the ramparts 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 moonbeams' misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.
No useless coffin enclos'd 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 gaz'd on the face that was dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
i He was killed at Corunna, where he fell in the arms of victory, 1809. With his dying breath he faltered out a message to his mother. Sir John Moore had often said, that if he were killed in battle, he wished to be buried where he fell. The body was removed at midnight to the citadel of Corunna. A grave was dug for him on the rampart there, by a party of the 9th regiment, the aides-de-camp attending by turns. No coffin could be procured, and the officers of his staff wrapped the body, dressed as it was, in a military cloak and blankets, The interment was hastened ; for, about eight in the morning, some firing was heard, and the officers feared that if a serious attack were made, they should be ordered away, and not suffered to pay him their last duty,