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Through dark and dread Eternity
And more thy buried love endears
ON THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE,
NOT a drum was heard, nor a funeral note,
We buried him darkly at dead of night,
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,
But we stedfastly gazed on the face of the dead,
We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed,
That the foe and the stranger would tread c'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; 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.—
O MOURN not the hero with pitiful sorrow,
Or sully his mem❜ry by weeping;
His injuries stamp'd on the souls of the brave,
But there let him lie in his greatness alone,
And mourn'd thro' all time by the tremulous moan,
There winds that know none but Almighty controul
And waters shall join in high dirge for a soul,
As free as the masterless ocean.
His name they shall carry to regions accurst,
Till, in liberty's shouts of delight it shall burst
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.
ON THE DEATH OF SIR PETER PARKER, BART. R. N.
THERE is a tear for all that die,
For them is sorrow's purest sigh
All earth becomes their monument!
A tomb is theirs on every page,
The present hours, the future age,
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,
Who would not share their glorious lot?
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
And shuddering hear of victory,
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,
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-
None thought that such bonds could be riven:
Now shades where the bright light has shone,
Fond youth! thou hast lost the best blossom
For a nation's night-tears shall bedew it,
To keep it from withering away.