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I have breathed on the South, and the chestnut-flowers,
And the ancient graves, and the fallen fanes,
I have passed o'er the hills of the stormy North,
And the reindeer bounds through the pasture free,
And the moss looks bright where my step has been.
I have sent through the wood-paths a gentle sigh,
THE VOICE OF SPRING.
From the night-bird's lay through the starry time,
To the swan's wild note by the Iceland lakes,
When the dark fir-bough into verdure breaks.
From the streams and founts I have loosed the chain;
They are sweeping on to the silvery main,
They are flashing down from the mountain-brows,
Come forth, O ye children of gladness, come!
Away from the dwellings of care-worn men,
The Burial of Sir John Moore.
OT a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
We buried him darkly at dead of night,
No useless coffin inclosed his breast,
Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him;
Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
[Seldom indeed can it be said of a young aspirant for poetic fame, that eight short verses have been sufficient to preserve from oblivion the name alike of the writer and of the hero in whose honour they were penned; and yet this has been the case with the Rev. CHARLES WOLFE and his ode "On the Death of Sir John Moore." Never has hero been embalmed in more noble and touching strains than those that sing the fall of the warrior of Corunna ; never was the cause of valour in misfortune more successfully pleaded than in the noble appeal for the brave leader, who “lay like a warrior taking his rest" in his grave in the citadel of the hostile town. Byron pronounced "The Burial" to be the most perfect ode in the English language. It certainly entitled the author to a high place among the poets. The lines to "Sweet Mary," in another part of this volume, though they have not the martial ring of the famous ode, are exquisite in their mournful tenderness. The Rev. Charles Wolfe was a curate in Ireland. He died of consumption, at the early age of thirty-two years.]
THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.
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,
Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
But nothing he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
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 stone, But we left him alone with his glory!