We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed,
And smooth'd down his lonely pillow,

The foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,

And we far away on the billow !

Lightly they'll talk o 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 stone, But we left him alone with his glory!



MATRON! the children of whose love,
Each to his grave, in youth hath pass'd,
And now the mould is heap'd above
The dearest and the last!

Bride! who dost wear the widow's veil
Before the wedding flowers are pale!
Ye deem the human heart endures
No deeper, bitterer grief than yours.

Yet there are pangs of keener woe,
Of which the sufferers never speak,
Nor to the world's cold pity show

The tears that scald the cheek,
Wrung from their eyelids by the shame
And guilt of those they shrink to name,
Whom once they lov'd with cheerful will,
And love, though fallen and branded, still.

Weep, ye who sorrow for the dead,

Thus breaking hearts their pain relieve;
And graceful are the tears ye shed,
And honour'd ye who grieve.

The praise of those who sleep in earth,
The pleasant memory of their worth,
The hope to meet when life is past,
Shall heal the tortur'd mind at last.

But ye, who for the living lost
That agony in secret bear,

Who shall with soothing words accost
The strength of your despair?
Grief for your sake is scorn for them
Whom ye lament and all condemn ;
And o'er the world of spirits lies
A gloom from which ye turn your eyes.



Ir was a lovely morning! all was calm,
As if creation, thankful for repose,

In renovated beauty, breathing balm,
And blessedness around, from slumber rose;

Joyful once more to see the east unclose
Its gates of glory :- yet subdued and mild,
Like the soft smile of patience amid woes
By hope and resignation reconcil'd,

That morning's beauty shone, that landscape's charm beguil❜d.

The heavens were mark'd by many a filmy streak, Ev'n in the orient; and the sun shone through Those lines, as hope upon a mourner's cheek Sheds, meekly chasten'd, her delightful hue. From groves and meadows, all empearl'd with dew, Rose silvery mists,-no eddying wind swept by: The cottage chimneys, half conceal'd from view By their embowering foliage, sent on high Their pallid wreaths of smoke, unruffled, to the sky.

And every gentle sound which broke the hush Of morning's still serenity, was sweet; The skylark overhead; the speckled thrush, Who now had taken with delight his seat Upon the slender larch, the day to greet; The starling, chattering to her callow young; And that monotonous lay, which seems to fleet Like echo through the air,- the cuckoo's song, Was heard at times far off the leafy woods among. BARTON.


O LADY, twine no wreath for me,
Or twine it of the cypress-tree!
Too lively glows the lily's light,
The varnish'd holly's all too bright,

The may-flower and the eglantine
May shade a brow less sad than mine;
But, Lady, weave no wreath for me,
Or weave it of the cypress-tree!

Let dimpled Mirth his temples twine
With tendrils of the laughing vine;
The manly oak, the pensive yew,
To patriot and to sage be due;
The myrtle bough bid lovers live,
But that Matilda will not give ;
Then, Lady, twine no wreath for me,
Or twine it of the cypress-tree!

Let merry England proudly rear
Her blended roses, bought so dear;
Let Albin bind her bonnet blue
With heath and harebell dipp'd in dew;
On favour'd Erin's crest be seen
The flow'rs she loves of emerald green.-
But, Lady, twine no wreath for me,
Or twine it of the cypress-tree.

Strike the wild harp, while maids prepare
The ivy meet for minstrel's hair;
And, while his crown of laurel-leaves
With bloody hand the victor weaves,
Let the loud trump his triumph tell;
But, when you hear the passing bell,
Then, Lady, twine a wreath for me,
And twine it of the cypress-tree.

Yes! twine for me the cypress bough:
But, O Matilda, twine not now!
Stay till a few brief months are past,
And I have look'd and lov'd my last!

The Gaelic appellation of Scotland.

When villagers my shroud bestrew
With pansies, rosemary, and rue
Then, Lady, weave a wreath for me,
And weave it of the cypress-tree.



MARCH on, in all your proud attire,
Ye blooming band, with souls of fire,
Ye, that to glory's wreath aspire,

On danger's height hung dreadfully.

March on, march on in long array;
With glittering arms, and banners gay,
With plumes that on the breezes play,
And music clashing martially.

Strange joyance thro' the gazing throng
Ye scatter, as ye pass along;
They hear in yon loud cymbals' song
The glorious sounds of victory.

They see in all this gorgeous light,
Of steel, and gold, and trappings bright,
Your glad return from conquering fight,
And hail its prospect joyfully.


Alas! through almost blinding tears,
I see ye on your dreadful biers
That music to my shuddering ears,
Plays but your dirges dismally!

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