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The Soldier's Dream.
UR bugles sang truce; for the night-cloud had lower'd,
Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array,
To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back.
I flew to the pleasant fields, traversed so oft
In life's morning march, when my bosom was young;
I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,
And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung.
Then pledg'd we the wine-cup; and fondly I swore,
And my wife sobb'd aloud, in her fulness of heart:
But sorrow return'd with the dawning of morn,
COME, I come!-ye have called me long-
THE VOICE OF SPRING.
By the primrose-stars in the shadowy grass,
By the green leaves opening as I pass.
I have breathed on the South, and the chestnut-flowers,
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,
From the streams and founts I have loosed the chain ;
They are sweeping on to the silvery main,
Come forth, O ye children of gladness, come!
THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.
With the lyre, and the wreath, and the joyous lay:
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,
The sods with our bayonets turning;
No useless coffin inclosed 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.
THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.
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,
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;
Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
From the field of his fame fresh and gory;
[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," given at page 120 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.]