The Soldier's Gravę. L. E. L. THERE's a white stone placed upon yonder tomb, Beneath is a Soldier lying: The death-wound came amid sword and plume Yet now he sleeps, the turf on his breast, The church-shadow falls o'er his place of rest, There were tears that fell from manly eyes, He had left his home in his spirits' pride, He came again in the light of his fame, But the cloud of strife came over the sky,— And his young child's lisp for the loud roar-cry, He came again,-but an altered man : He spoke of victory,-spoke of cheer: — A helmet and sword are engraved on the stone, There he sleeps whose death in battle was won, Verses by J. Montgomery. Composed for the Anniversary of Robert Burn's Birthday, celebrated at Sheffield, 1820. WHAT bird in beauty, flight, or song, Can with the Bard compare, Who sang as sweet, and soar'd as strong, As ever child of air. His plume, his note, his form, could Burns For whim or pleasure change; He was not one, but all by turns, With transmigration strange. The Blackbird, oracle of spring, When flow'd his moral lay; The Swallow, wheeling on the wing, The Humming-bird from bloom to bloom, Inhaling heavenly balm; The Raven in the tempest gloom; In "Auld Kirk Allaway" the Owl It was the Wren amidst the gloom, With thunder in his train. The Burial of Sir John Moore. Nor a drum was heard, nor a funeral note, Wolf. E No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Nor in sheets nor in shroud we bound him; Few and short were the prayers we said, But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead, We thought as we hollow'd his narrow bed, 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, But nothing he'll reck if they let him sleep on But half our heavy task was done, When the clock told the hour for retiring; But we heard, by the distant and random gun, That the foe was suddenly 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 in his glory. The Becond. L. E. L. HE sleeps, his head upon his sword, His soldier's cloak a shroud; His church-yard is the field open Three times it has been plough'd; The first time that the wheat sprung up The meanest beggar turn'd away Third year, and the grain grew fair, As it was wont to wave; None would have thought that golden corn Was growing on the grave. His lot was but a peasant's lot, His name a peasant's name; Not his the place of death that twines He fell as other thousands do, Down trampled where they fall, Yet even he whose common grave Died not without a thought of all The joy that glory yields. |