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Rev. CHARLES WOLFE. 1791–1823. (Manual, p. 432.)
313. THE BURIAL OF SIR John Moore."
As his corse to the rampart we hurried :
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.
We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning -
And the lantern dimly burning.
No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him;
With his martial cloak around him.
Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed,
And smoothed down his lonely pillow,
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
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;
That the foe was sullenly firing.
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 tho 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."
Uttered or unexpressed;
That trembles in the breast.
Prayer is the burden of a sigh,
The falling of a tear,
When none but God is near.
Prayer is the simplest form of speech
That infant lips can try;
The Majesty on high.
Prayer is the Christian's vital breath,
The Christian's native air;
He enters heaven by prayer.
Prayer is the contrite sinner's voice
Returning from his ways;
And say, “ Behold, he prays!”
The saints in prayer appear as one,
In word, and deed, and mind,
Their fellowship they find.
Nor prayer is made on earth alone;
The Holy Spirit pleads;
For sinners intercedes.
O Thou, by whom we come to God,
The Life, the Truth, the Way,
Lord, teach us how to pray!
HORACE Smith. 1780-1849. (Manual, p. 432.)
316. Address to A MUMMY.
And thou hast walked about (how strange a story!)
In Thebes's streets three thousand years ago, When the Memnonium was in all its glory,
And time had not begun to overthrow Those temples, palaces, and piles stupendous, Of which the very ruins are tremendous !
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, But with thy bones, and flesh, and limbs, and features.
Tell us — - for doubtless thou canst recollect
To whom we should assign the Sphinx's fame?
Of either Pyramid that bears his name?
Perhaps thou wert a mason, and forbidden
By oath to tell the secrets of thy trade – Then 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,
Has any Roman soldier mauled and knuckled,
Ere Romulus and Remus had been suckled ::
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,
O'erthrew Osiris, Orus, Apis, Isis,
If the tomb's secrets may not be confessed,
The nature of thy private life unfold:
And tears adown that dusky cheek have rolled;
Statue of flesh - immortal of the dead!
Imperishable type of evanescence !
And standest undecayed within our presence,
Why should this worthless tegument endure,
If its undying guest be lost forever?
In living virtue, that, when both must sever,
GEORGE CANNING. 1770-1827.
FROM “THE ANTIJACOBIN.” 317. THE FRIEND OF HUMANITY AND THE KNIFE-GRINDER.
Friend of Humanity.
So have your breeches.
Weary Knife-grinder, little think the proud ones,
Scissors to grind, O!”
Tell me, Knife-grinder, how came you to grind knives?
Or the attorney?