Sad over earth and ocean sounding,
And England's distant cliffs astounding,
Such are the notes should say

How Britain's hope, and France's fear,
Victor of Cressy and Poitier,

In Bordeaux dying lay.

"Raise my faint head, my squires," he said, "And let the casement be displayed,

That I may see once more

The splendour of the setting sun

Gleam on thy mirrored wave, Garonne,
And Blay's empurpled shore.

"Like me, he sinks to Glory's sleep, His fall the dews of evening steep,

As if in sorrow shed.

So soft shall fall the trickling tear,
When England's maids and matrons hear
Of their Black Edward dead.

"And though my sun of glory set, Nor France nor England shall forget

The terror of my name;

And oft shall Britain's heroes rise,
New planets in these southern skies,
Through clouds of blood and flame."

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

The Burial of Sir John Moore

Not a drum was heard, not 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 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,

Not in sheet or 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;

Sad over earth and ocean sounding,
And England's distant cliffs astounding,
Such are the notes should say

How Britain's hope, and France's fear,
Victor of Cressy and Poitier,

66

In Bordeaux dying lay.

Raise my faint head, my squires," he said, "And let the casement be displayed,

That I may see once more

The splendour of the setting sun
Gleam on thy mirrored wave, Garonne,
And Blay's empurpled shore.

"Like me, he sinks to Glory's sleep, His fall the dews of evening steep,

As if in sorrow shed.

So soft shall fall the trickling tear,
When England's maids and matrons hear
Of their Black Edward dead.

"And though my sun of glory set, Nor France nor England shall forget

The terror of my name;

And oft shall Britain's heroes rise,
New planets in these southern skies,
Through clouds of blood and flame.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

The Burial of Sir John Moore

Not a drum was heard, not 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 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,

Not in sheet or 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 smooth'd down his lonely pillow,

That 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 gone,
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 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 with his glory.

CHARLES WOLFE.