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REV. CHARLES WOLFE. 1791-1823. (Manual, p. 432.) 313. THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.1
Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning -
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 dead,
We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed,
That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,
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;
Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
From the field of his fame fresh and gory;
But we left him alone with his glory.
1 Sir John Moore was mortally wounded by a cannon ball, January 16, 1809, in an action between the English and Spanish forces under his command, and the French under Marshal Soult, on the Heights of Elvina, near Corunna, Spain, and died in the moment of his victory.
JAMES MONTGOMERY. 1771-1854. (Manual, p. 432.)
FROM "THE WEST INDIES."
314. THE Love of Country and of Home.
There is a land, of every land the pride,
"Where shall that land, that spot of earth, be found?”
That land THY COUNTRY, and that spot THY HOME!
Prayer is the soul's sincere desire,
That trembles in the breast.
Prayer is the burden of a sigh,
The upward glancing of an eye,
Prayer is the simplest form of speech
Prayer is the Christian's vital breath,
His watchword at the gates of death,
Prayer is the contrite sinner's voice
The saints in prayer appear as one,
Nor prayer is made on earth alone;
And Jesus, on the eternal throne,
O Thou, by whom we come to God,
HORACE SMITH. 1780-1849. (Manual, p. 432.)
316. ADDRESS TO A MUMMY.
And thou hast walked about (how strange a story!)
And time had not begun to overthrow
Speak! for thou long enough hast acted dumby:
Thou hast a tongue, come, let us hear its tune; Thou'rt standing on thy legs above ground, mummy! Revisiting the glimpses of the moon.
Not like thin ghosts or disembodied creatures,
for doubtless thou canst recollect
Of either Pyramid that bears his name?
Perhaps thou wert a mason, and forbidden
By oath to tell the secrets of thy tradeThen say, what secret melody was hidden
In Memnon's statue, which at sunrise played? Perhaps thou wert a Priest - if so, my struggles Are vain, for priestcraft never owns its juggles.
Perchance that very hand, now pinioned flat,
Has hob-a-nobbed with Pharaoh, glass to glass;
Or doffed thine own to let Queen Dido pass,
I need not ask thee if that hand, when armed,
Long after thy primeval race was run.
Thou couldst develop, if that withered tongue
Might tell us what those sightless orbs have seen, How the world looked when it was fresh and young,
And the great deluge still had left it green; Or was it then so old, that history's pages Contained no record of its early ages?
Still silent, incommunicative elf!
Art sworn to secrecy? then keep thy vows; But prythee tell us something of thyself,
Reveal the secrets of thy prison-house; Since in the world of spirits thou hast slumbered, What hast thou seen what strange adventures numbered?
Since first thy form was in this box extended,
We have, above ground, seen some strange mutations;
The Roman empire has begun and ended,
New worlds have risen we have lost old nations, And countless kings have into dust been humbled, Whilst not a fragment of thy flesh has crumbled.
Didst thou not hear the pother o'er thy head,
When the great Persian conqueror, Cambyses, Marched armies o'er thy tomb with thundering tread,
O'erthrew Osiris, Orus, Apis, Isis,
And shook the pyramids with fear and wonder,
If the tomb's secrets may not be confessed,
A heart has throbbed beneath that leathern breast,
Statue of flesh
Imperishable type of evanescence!
And standest undecayed within our presence,
- immortal of the dead!
Why should this worthless tegument endure,
In living virtue, that, when both must sever, Although corruption may our frame consume, The immortal spirit in the skies may bloom.
GEORGE CANNING. 1770-1827.
FROM "THE ANTIJACOBIN."
317. THE Friend of HUMANITY AND THe Knife-GrindER. Friend of Humanity.
Needy Knife-grinder, whither are you going?
Bleak blows the blast — your hat has got a hole in't
Weary Knife-grinder, little think the proud ones,
Tell me, Knife-grinder, how came you to grind knives?
Or the attorney?