CLXVIII.

CHARLES WOLFE, 1791-1823.

SONG.

F I had thought thou could'st have died,

I'

I might not weep for thee;
But I forgot, when by thy side,

That thou could'st mortal be;
It never through my mind had past,
The time would e'er be o'er,

And I on thee should look my last,
And thou should'st smile no more!

And still upon that face I look,
And think 'twill smile again;
And still the thought I will not brook,
That I must look in vain!

But when I speak-thou dost not say,

What thou ne'er left'st unsaid, And now I feel, as well I may, Sweet Mary! thou art dead!

If thou would'st stay, e'en as thou art,
All cold, and all serene-

I still might press thy silent heart,

And where thy smiles have been !
While e'en thy chill bleak corse I have,
Thou seemest still mine own;
But there I lay thee in thy grave—

And I am now alone!

I do not think, where'er thou art,
Thou hast forgotten me;

And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart,
In thinking too of thee;

Yet there was round thee such a dawn
Of light ne'er seen before,

As fancy never could have drawn,
And never can restore !

CLXIX.

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.

IOT a drum was heard, not a funeral note,

As his corse to the rampart we hurried ; Not a soldier discharged 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 moonbeam's misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Not in sheet or 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 gazed on the face that was dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

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 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 stoneBut we left him alone with his glory!

CLXX.

STANZAS.

APRIL, 1814.

PERCY BYSSHe Shelley,

1792-1822.

WAY! the moor is dark beneath the moon.

A Rapid clouds have drunk the last pale beam of

even:

Away! the gathering winds will call the darkness soon, And profoundest midnight shroud the serene lights of

heaven.

Pause not! The time is past! Every voice cries, Away! Tempt not with one last glance thy friend's ungentle

mood:

Thy lover's eye, so glazed and cold, dares not entreat thy

stay:

Duty and dereliction guide thee back to solitude.

Away, away! to thy sad and silent home;

Pour bitter tears on its desolated hearth;

Watch the dim shades as like ghosts they go and come,
And complicate strange webs of melancholy mirth.
The leaves of wasted autumn woods shall float around
thine head;

The blooms of dewy spring shall gleam beneath thy feet: