That small white church in his own land, The lime-trees almost hide, Bears on the walls the names of those His name is written on those walls, His mother read it there, With pride,-oh! no, there could not not be And many a stranger, who shall mark Will think on prouder ones, yet say The Soldier's Funeral. L. E. L. AND the muffled drum roll'd on the air, That soldier had stood on the battle-plain, Where every step was over the slain; But the brand and the ball had pass'd him by, And he came to his native land to die. "T was hard to come to that native land, And not clasp one familiar hand! 'T was hard to be number'd among the dead But 't was something to see its cliffs once more, The bugles ceased their wailing sound I saw a poor and aged man, His step was feeble, his lip was wan; He knelt him down on the new-raised mound, The father had pray'd o'er an only son! Time. ON! on our moments hurry by Like shadows of a passing cloud, Till general darkness wraps the sky Bowring. And man sleeps senseless on his shroud. He sports, he trifles time away, Till time is his to waste no more; Heedless he hears the surges play, And then is dash'd upon the shore. He has no thoughts of coming days, And treasures nought and gathers nought. Tho' wisdom speak-his ear is dull; Tho' virtue smile-he sees her not: His cup of vanity is full, And all besides -forgot. The Wreck. Mrs. Hemans. "ALL night the booming minute-gun Had peal'd along the deep, And mournfully the rising sun Look'd o'er the tide-worn steep. A bark from India's coral strand, Before the rushing blast, Had veil'd her topsails to the sand, And bow'd her noble mast. The queenly ship!-brave hearts had striv'n We saw her mighty cable riv'n, We saw her proud flag struck that morn, A star once o'er the seas, Her helm beat down, her deck uptorn,- We saw her treasures cast away; And gorgeous robes,-but oh! that shore We e saw the strong man, still and low, Yet, by that rigid lip and brow, Not without strife he died! In her pale arms a babe had press'd Billows had dashed o'er that fond breast Yet not undone the clasp! Her very tresses had been flung To wrap the fair child's form, Where still the wet long streamers clung All tangled by the storm. And beautiful, midst that wild scene, Deep in her bosom lay his head, He had known little of her dread, Oh, human love! whose yearning heart, Surely thou hast another lot, There is some home for thee Song of Mina's Soldiers. (From the First Number of the Peninsular Melodies.) Mrs. Hemans. WE heard thy name, O Mina! The mountain bands are here. |