Sad over earth and ocean sounding, How Britain's hope, and France's fear, 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, "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, "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, SIR WALTER SCOTT. The Burial of Sir John Moore Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, We buried him darkly at dead of night, 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, Sad over earth and ocean sounding, How Britain's hope, and France's fear, 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 "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, "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, SIR WALTER SCOTT. The Burial of Sir John Moore Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, We buried him darkly at dead of night, 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, 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, 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. |