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WHERE is Timarchus gone?

His father's hands were round him,

And when he breathed his life away, The joy of youth had crowned him.

Old man! thou wilt not forget

Thy lost one, when thine eye Gazeth on the glowing cheek Of hope and piety.

ON THE LOSS OF THE "ROYAL GEORGE."

TOLL for the brave

The brave that are no more! All sunk beneath the wave, Fast by their native shore!

Eight hundred of the brave, Whose courage well was tried, Had made the vessel heel,

And laid her on her side.

A land breeze shook the shrouds,
And she was overset:
Down went the "Royal George,"
With all her crew complete.

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LOUD is the Vale! the voice is up With which she speaks when storms are gone,

A mighty unison of streams!
Of all her Voices, One!

Loud is the Vale;-this inland Depth
In peace is roaring like the sea;
Yon star upon the mountain-top
Is listening quietly.

Sad was I, even to pain deprest,
Importunate and heavy load!
The Comforter hath found me here,
Upon this lonely road;

And many thousands now are sad
Wait the fulfilment of their fear;
For he must die who is their stay,
Their glory disappear.

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Mourn for the man of long-enduring blood,

The statesman-warrior, moderate, resolute,

Whole in himself, a common good. Mourn for the man of amplest influ

ence,

Yet clearest of ambitious crime,
Our greatest yet with least pretence,
Great in council and great in war,
Foremost captain of his time,
Rich in saving common-sense,
And, as the greatest only are,
In his simplicity sublime.
O good gray head which all men
knew,

O voice from which their omens all men drew,

O iron nerve to true occasion true, O fallen at length that tower of strength

Which stood four-square to all the winds that blew! Such was he whom we deplore. The long self-sacrifice of life is o'er. The great World-victor's victor will be seen no more.

V.

All is over and done:
Render thanks to the Giver,
England, for thy son.

Let the bell be tolled.
Render thanks to the Giver,
And render him to the mould.
Under the cross of gold
That shines over city and river,
There he shall rest forever
Among the wise and the bold.
Let the bell be tolled:

And a reverent people behold
The towering car, the sable steeds:
Bright let it be with its blazoned
deeds,

Dark in its funeral fold.

Let the bell be tolled:

And a deeper knell in the heart be knolled;

And the sound of the sorrowing anthem rolled

Thro' the dome of the golden cross; And the volleying cannon thunder his loss;

He knew their voices of old.
For many a time in many a clime
His captain's-ear has heard them
boom

Bellowing victory, bellowing doom:

When he with those deep voices wrought,

Guarding realms and kings from shame;

With those deep voices our dead captain taught

The tyrant, and asserts his claim
In that dread sound to the great name,
Which he has worn so pure of blame,
In praise and in dispraise the same,
A man of well-attempered frame.
O civic muse, to such a name,
To such a name for ages long,
To such a name,

Preserve a broad approach of fame,
And ever-echoing avenues of song.

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Now, to the roll of muffled drums,
To thee the greatest soldier comes;
For this is he

Was great by land as thou by sea;
His foes were thine; he kept us free;
O give him welcome, this is he
Worthy of our gorgeous rites,
And worthy to be laid by thee;
For this is England's greatest son,
He that gained a hundred fights,
Nor ever lost an English gun;
This is he that far away
Against the myriads of Assaye
Clashed with his fiery few and won;
And underneath another sun,
Warring on a later day,
Round affrighted Lisbon drew
The treble works, the vast designs
Of his labored rampart-lines,
Where he greatly stood at bay,
Whence he issued forth anew,
And ever great and greater grew,
Beating from the wasted vines
Back to France her banded swarms,
Back to France with countless blows,
Till o'er the hills her eagles flew
Beyond the Pyrenean pines,

Followed up in valley and glen
With blare of bugle, clamor of men,
Roll of cannon and clash of arms,
And England pouring on her foes.
Such a war had such a close.
Again their ravening eagle rose
In anger, wheeled on Europe-shadow-
ing wings,

And barking for the thrones of kings;
Till one that sought but Duty's iron

crown

On that loud sabbath shook the spoiler down;

A day of onsets of despair!
Dashed on every rocky square
Their surging charges foamed them-
selves away;

Last, the Prussian trumpet blew;
Through the long-tormented air
Heaven flashed a sudden jubilant ray,
And down we swept and charged
and overthrew.

So great a soldier taught us there, What long-enduring hearts could do In that world-earthquake, Waterloo! Mighty Seaman, tender and true, And pure as he from taint of craven guile,

O saviour of the silver-coasted isle, O shaker of the Baltic and the Nile, If aught of things that here befall Touch a spirit among things divine, If love of country move thee there at all,

Be glad, because his bones are laid by thine!

And thro' the centuries let a people's voice

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Hush, the Dead March wails in the people's ears:

The dark crowd moves, and there are sobs and tears:

The black earth yawns: the mortal disappears;

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust;
He is gone who seemed so great. -
Gone; but nothing can bereave him
Of the force he made his own
Being here, and we believe him
Something far advanced in State,
And that he wears a truer crown
Than any wreath that man can
weave him.

Speak no more of his renown,
Lay your earthly fancies down,
And in the vast cathedral leave him.
God accept him, Christ receive him.
TENNYSON.

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE AT CORUNNA.

NOT a drum was heard, not a funeral note,

As his corpse to the rampart we hurried;

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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,

And we far away on the billow!

Lightly they'll talk of 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 tolled the hour for retiring:

And we heard the distant 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.
CHARLES WOLFE.

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