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Through dark and dread Eternity
Returns again to me,

And more thy buried love endears
Than aught, except its living years.


NOT a drum was heard, nor 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 was buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning,
By the struggling moon-beam's misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Nor in sheet nor in shroud we bound 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 in sorrow;


But we stedfastly gazed on the face of the dead,
And we bitterly thought on the morrow.

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed,
And smooth'd down his lonely pillow,

That the foe and the stranger would tread c'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 nothing 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 toll'd the hour for retiring; And 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 with his glory.

Sir John Moore, was killed by a cannon shot in the moment of victory, at the battle of Corunna, Jan. 11th, 1809.-He was buried the same night on the ramparts of the Citadel of Corunna, a few hours before the British Troops embarked.—

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O MOURN not the hero with pitiful sorrow,

Or sully his mem❜ry by weeping;
But wild throbs of freedom indignantly borrow
From hearts that in glory are sleeping!

His injuries stamp'd on the souls of the brave,
Their free-born emotions to cherish,—
mark not the awe-striking site of his grave
With symbols that ever can perish!

But there let him lie in his greatness alone,
With the adamant rock for his pillow,

And mourn'd thro' all time by the tremulous moan,
That comes from the shore stricken billow.

There winds that know none but Almighty controul
Shall rage in delighted commotion,

And waters shall join in high dirge for a soul,

As free as the masterless ocean.

His name they shall carry to regions accurst,
The stillness of slavery breaking;

Till, in liberty's shouts of delight it shall burst
From nations in glory awaking.

General Lacy, much distinguished himself as a Patriot General during the Spanish Campaigns.-After the restoration of Ferdinand the Seventh, he engaged in a conspiracy against the King, for which he was shot in 1817.


THERE is a tear for all that die,
A mourner o'er the humblest grave;
But nations swell the funeral ery,
And Triumph weeps above the brave.

For them is sorrow's purest sigh
O'er Ocean's heaving bosom sent:
In vain their bones unburied lie,

All earth becomes their monument!

Lord Byron.

A tomb is theirs on every page,
An epitaph on every tongue :

The present hours, the future age,
For them bewail, to them belong.

For them the voice of festal mirth

Grows hushed, their name the only sound; While deep remembrance pours to worth The goblet's tributary round.

A theme to crouds that knew them not,
Lamented by admiring foes,

Who would not share their glorious lot?
Who would not die the death they chose?

And, gallant Parker! thus enshrined

Thy life, thy fall, thy fame shall be;

And early valour, glowing, find

A model in thy memory.

But there are breasts that bleed with thee
In woe, that glory cannot quell;

And shuddering hear of victory,
Where one so dear, so dauntless, fell."

Where shall they turn to mourn thee less? When cease to hear thy cherished name? Time cannot teach forgetfulness,

While Grief's full heart is fed by Fame.

Alas! for them, though not for thee,
They cannot choose but weep the more;
Deep for the dead the grief must be

Who ne'er gave cause to mourn before.

At the head of a party of seamen and whilst cheering them on to the attack of the enemies works at Bellaire, in North America, Sir Peter Parker received his death-wound and expired in a few minutes after.-August 30th, 1814.


In allusion to the Loves of our regretted Princess Charlotte and Prince Leopold,

By an Officer of her own Regiment.

The bright light of joy was around them-
Their love seem'd the pure gift of heaven!
So fondly, so firmly it bound them,

None thought that such bonds could be riven:
But alas, it is broken! and sorrow

Now shades where the bright light has shone,
And the sun that shall rise on the morrow
Shall mock the fair sun that is gone!

Fond youth! thou hast lost the best blossom
That England could give thee to wear!
"Twas torn by the wind from thy bosom→→
Ah! softly its leaves nestled there!
But 'tis fallen on the green earth that grew it,
Where never its sweets can decay;

For a nation's night-tears shall bedew it,

To keep it from withering away.

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