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CHARLES WOLFE: 1791-1823.

NOT a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corse to the ramparts we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot,
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

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

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound 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 of sorrow;

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


We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed,
And smoothed down his lonely pillow,

How 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
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him;
But little 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 struck the hour for retiring;

And we heard the distant and random gun
Of the enemy 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 with his glory.



"So the dreams depart,

So the fading phantoms flee,
And the sharp reality

Now must act its part."

WESTWOOD'S Beads from a Rosary.

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"And the steed, it shall be shod All in silver, housed in azure,

And the mane shall swim the wind;
And the hoofs, along the sod,

Shall flash onward in a pleasure,

Till the shepherds look behind.

"But my lover will not prize
All the glory that he rides in,
When he gazes in my face!
He will say, 'O Love, thine eyes
Build the shrine my soul abides in,
And I kneel here for thy grace!'



"Then, ay, then--he shall kneel lowWith the red-roan steed anear him,


Which shall seem to understand-
Till I answer, 'Rise, and go!

For the world must love and fear him
Whom I gift with heart and hand.'

"Then he will arise so pale,

I shall feel my own lips tremble
With a yes I must not say-
Nathless, maiden brave, Farewell,'

I will utter and dissemble

'Light to-morrow with to-day.'

"Then he will ride through the hills,
To the wide world past the river,
There to put away all wrong!
To make straight distorted wills,-
And to empty the broad quiver
Which the wicked bear along.

"Three times shall a young foot-page Swim the stream and climb the mountain, And kneel down beside my feet—

'Lo! my master sends this

Lady, for thy pity's counting!


What wilt thou exchange for it?'

"And the first time I will send A white rosebud for a guerdon,—

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And the second time a glove!

But the third time-I may bend

From my pride, and answer, 'Pardon-.
If he comes to take my love.'

"Then the young foot-page will run—
Then my lover will ride faster,
Till he kneeleth at my knee!
'I am a duke's eldest son !
Thousand serfs do call me master,
But, O Love, I love but thee!'



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Tied the bonnet, donn'd the shoe,
And went homeward, round a mile,

Just to see, as she did daily,

What more eggs were with the two.

Pushing through the elm-tree copse,
Winding by the stream light-hearted,
Where the osier pathway leads-
Past the boughs she stoops and stops!
Lo! the wild swan had deserted-
And a rat had gnaw'd the reeds.

Ellie went home, sad and slow!
If she found the lover ever,

With his red-roan steed of steeds, Sooth, I know not; but I know She could show him never, never,

That swan's nest among the reeds.




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