66 THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. NOT a drum was heard, not a funeral note, We buried him darkly at dead of night, No useless coffin enclosed 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; We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, ENGLAND'S DEAD. Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone 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 carved not a line, and we raised not a stone- Charles Wolfe. 67 ENGLAND'S DEAD. SON of the ocean isle! Go, stranger! track the deep, On Egypt's burning plains, With fearful power the noon-day reigns, 68 ENGLAND'S DEAD. But let the angry sun From Heaven look fiercely red, The hurricane hath might But let the sound roll on! It hath no tone of dread, For those that from their toils are gone;- Loud rush the torrent-floods And free, in green Columbia's woods, But let the floods rush on! The mountain-storms rise high In the snowy Pyrenees, And toss the pine-boughs through the sky, But let the storm rage on! Let the forest-wreaths be shed; 69 ENGLAND'S DEAD. On the frozen deep's repose But let the ice drift on! Let the cold-blue desert spread! Their course with mast and flag is done, There slumber England's dead. The warlike of the isles, The men of field and wave! Are not the rocks their funeral piles, Go, stranger! track the deep, Mrs. Hemans. |