Room for a soldier! lay him in the clover; Where the rain may rain upon it, Bear him to no dismal tomb under city churches; birches, Where the whip-poor-will shall mourn, where the oriole perches: Make his mound with sunshine on it, Where the bee will dine upon it, Where the lamb hath lain upon it, And the rain will rain upon it. Busy as the bee was he, and his rest should be the clover; Gentle as the lamb was he, and the fern should be his cover; Where the sun may shine upon it, Where the lamb hath lain upon it, And the bee will dine upon it. Sunshine in his heart, the rain would come full often Out of those tender eyes which evermore did soften: He never could look cold till we saw him in his 66 coffin. Make his mound with sunshine on it. Plant the lordly pine upon it, Where the moon may stream upon it, And memory shall dream upon it. Captain or Colonel," whatever invocation Suit our hymn the best, no matter for thy sta tion, On thy grave the rain shall fall from the eyes Long as the sun doth shine upon it, Long as the stars do gleam upon it, The Burial of Sir John Moore We buried him darkly at dead of night, No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him; Few and short were the prayers we said, But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was And we bitterly thought of the morrow. We thought as we hollow'd his narrow bed, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er And we far away on the billow! Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, For Home and Country For Home and But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on Country But half of our heavy task was done, When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing. Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone— But we left him alone in his glory. CHARLES Wolfe. Soldier, Rest! Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er, Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking: Dream of battle-fields no more, Days of danger, nights of waking. In our isle's enchanted hall, Hands unseen thy couch are strewing; Fairy strains of music fall, Every sense in slumber dewing. Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er, Dream of fighting fields no more: Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking, No rude sound shall reach thine ear, Mustering clan, or squadron tramping. At the day-break, from the fallow, Here's no war-steed's neigh and champing, SIR WALTER SCOTT. "The Lady of the Lake." For Home and Country Recessional God of our fathers, known of old- The tumult and the shouting dies— Still stands Thine ancient Sacrifice, ~[297] |