THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.

"Forget thee?" Bid the forest birds forget their sweetest tune; "Forget thee?" Bid the sea forget to swell beneath the moon; Bid the thirsty flowers forget to drink the eve's refreshing dew; Thyself forget thine own "dear land," and its "mountains wild and blue." Forget each old familiar face, each long-remembered spot,When these things are forgot by thee, then thou shalt be forgot!

Keep, if thou wilt, thy maiden peace, still calm and fancy-free,
For GOD forbid thy gladsome heart should grow less glad for me;
Yet, while that heart is still unwon, oh! bid not mine to rove,
But let it nurse its humble faith and uncomplaining love;-
If these, preserved for patient years, at last avail me not,
Forget me then ;-but ne'er believe that thou canst be forgot!

CHARLES WOLFE. 1791-1823.

The Burial of Sir John Moore.

OT 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,

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;

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

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed,

And smoothed 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
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.

ODE TO THE NORTH-EAST WIND.

Equal scorn of Saint and Devil;

Poor and outcast; halt and blind;

Exiles from Life's golden revel
Gnawing at the bitter rind

Of old griefs; or else, confined

In proud cares, to serve and grind,-
May enter whom this heart shall cure.
But go thou by: thou art not poor:
Nor defrauded of thy lot:

Bless thyself; but enter not!"

CHARLES KINGSLEY. 1819.

Ode to the orth-East Wind.

ELCOME, wild Northeaster!

Shame it is to see
Odes to every zephyr,

Ne'er a verse to thee.
Welcome, black Northeaster!

O'er the German foam,
O'er the Danish moorlands,

From thy frozen home.

Tired we are of Summer,
Tired of gaudy glare,
Showers of soft and steaming,
Hot, and breathless air.
Tired of listless dreaming
Through the lazy day;
Jovial wind of Winter,

Turn us out to play!
Sweep the golden reed-beds;
Crisp the lazy dyke;

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