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We buried him darkly, at dead of night,

The sod 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 bound 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 the cold ashes upbraid him;
But nothing 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 toll'd 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-we raised not a stone,

But left him alone in his glory. The lesser Ode is the appropriate vehicle for detached thoughts and reflections, whether suggested by some external object, or arising within the mind. Numerous examples of both may be found in our periodical literature. The former is beautifully portrayed in the following poem, by an unknown writer:

'Twas eve. The lengthening shadows of the oak

And weeping birch swept far adown the vale;
And nought upon the hush and stillness broke,

Save the light whispering of the spring-tide gale
At distance dying; and the measured stroke

Of woodmen at their toil; the feeble wail
Of some lone stock-dove, soothing, as it sank
On the lull'd ear, its melody that drank.

The sun had set; but his expiring beams

Yet linger'd in the west, and shed around
Beauty and softness o'er the wood and streams,

With coming night's first tinge of shade embrown'd.
The light clouds mingled, brighten'd with such gleams

Of glory, as the seraph-shapes surround,
That in the visions of the good descend,
And o'er their couch of sorrow seem to bend.
There are emotions in that grateful hour

Of twilight and serenity, which steal
Upon the heart with more than wonted power,

Making more pure and tender all we feel,
Softening its very core, as doth the shower

The thirsty glebe of summer. We reveal
More, in such hours of stillness, unto those
We love, than years of passion could disclose.
The heavens look down on us with eyes of love,

And earth itself looks heavenly; the sleep
Of nature is around us, but above

Are beings that eternal vigils keep.
'Tis sweet to dwell on such, and deem they strove

With sorrow once, and fled from crowds to weep
In loneliness, as we perchance have done;
And sigh to win the glory they have won!
'Tis sweet to mark the sky's unrufiled blue

Fast deepening into darkness, as the rays
Of lingering eve die fleetly, and a few

Stars of the brightest beam illume the blaze,
Like woman's eye of loveliness, seen through

The veil that shadows it in vain; we gaze
In mute and stirless transport, fondly listening
As there were music in its very glistening.
'Tis thus in solitude; but sweeter far,

By those we love, in that all-softening hour,
To watch with mutual eyes each coming star,

And the faint moon-rays streaming through our bower
Of foliage, wreathed and trembling, as the car

Of night rolls duskier onward, and each flower
And shrub that droops above us, on the sense

Seems dropping fragrance more and more intense. There are many Odes of Reflection in our language; and many Lyrical pieces, which express the thoughts that memory suggests to the imagination. We shall quote, as an instance, the following brief Ode, by Professor Wilson :

How wild and dim this life appears!

One long deep heavy sigh,
When o'er our eyes, half closed in tears,
The images of former years

Are faintly glittering by!
And still forgotten while they go!
As, on the sea beach, wave on wave

Dissolves at once in snow.
The amber clouds one moment lie,

Then, like a dream, are gone!
Though beautiful the moonbeams play
On the lake's bosom, bright as they,
And the soul intensely loves their stay,
Soon as the radiance melts away,

We scarce believe it shone!
Heaven-airs amid the harp-strings dwell;

And we wish they ne'er may fade;
They cease,—and the soul is a silent cell,

Where music never play'd!
Dreams follow dreams, through the long night-hours,

Each lovelier than the last;
But, ere the breath of morning-flowers,

That gorgeous world flies past;
And many a sweet angelic cheek,
Whose smiles of love and fondness speak,

Glides by us on this earth;
While in a day we cannot tell
Where shone the face we loved so well,

In sadness, or in mirth!

We have dwelt at what may seem disproportionate length on this species of lyric poetry; but the reason of this is, that no other species of poetry admits so many varieties of style and metre. Having now given three specimens of the serious Ode, we shall quote one of the sportive; and scarcely could we select a better than the following, written by Mrs. Gilman, an American lady:

Mother, mother, the winds are at play;
Prithee let me idle to-day.
Look, dear înother, the flowers all lie
Languidly under the bright blue sky;

See, how slowly the streamlet glides ;
Look, how the violet roguishly hides;
Even the butterfly rests on the rose,
And scarcely sips the sweets as he goes.
Poor Tray is asleep in the noon-day sun,
And the flies go about him one by one;
And pussy sits near with a sleepy grace,
Without ever thinking of washing her face.
There flies a bird to a neighbouring tree;
But very lazily flieth he;
And he sits and twitters a gentle note,
That scarcely ruffles his little throat.
You bid me busy ; but, mother, hear
How the humdrum grasshopper soundeth near;
And the soft west wind is so light in its play,
It scarcely moves a leaf on the spray.
I wish, oh, I wish I were yonder cloud,
That sails about with its misty shroud;
Books and work I no more should see,

But I'd come and float, dear mother, o'er thee! Of the Satirical Ode, one stanza will be a sufficient specimen; it is descriptive of a pretended patriot, remarkable for inconsistency in temper and conduct.

Each hour a different face he wears,
Now in a fury, now in tears,

Now langhing, now in sorrow:
Now he'll command, and now obey,
Bellows for liberty to-day,

And roars for power to-morrow. The Ballad is a simpler species of lyric composition than the Ode; it is sometimes confounded with a common song; but, in general, the ballad contains some plain narrative, in which there are but few incidents. Mrs. Hemans' song of. the Cid, and Casabianca, in this collection, are beautiful specimens of the lyrical ballad. Of the hymn and song, it is scarcely necessary to speak; for the reader's recollection will easily supply him with sufficient examples of both.

Pastoral poetry is descriptive of rural life, not as it really exists, but as it might have existed, if the world was an Eden. It is, consequently, more valuable for its descriptions of external nature and scenery, than for accuracy in the delineation of

character. It is, perhaps, owing to the love of excitement, which forms part of our national character, that purely pastoral poetry has never been popular in England.

Descriptive poetry is closely allied to pastoral, and of this species our literature possesses a great abundance: from Thomson's Seasons we have selected several passages purely descriptive; from Cowper's Task specimens of the descriptive, mixed with the didactic.

Of minor species of poetry, the most remarkable are, the Elegy, the Epitaph, the Epigram, and the Sonnet. The elegy is, properly speaking, a species of the lesser ode; its requisites are, perfect simplicity, and a careful avoidance of affected elegancies; it is, for the most part, used only for mournful or funeral subjects.

The Epitaph is an inscription for a tomb. We find both illustrated in Gray's beautiful Elegy in a Country Churchyard, to which an epitaph is subjoined.' ELEGY, WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD. The curfew' tolls the knell of parting day,

The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea>,
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,

And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,

And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,

And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds.
Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower,

The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of such as, wandering near her secret bower,

Molest her ancient solitary reign.
Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,

Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap,
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.
The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,

The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed,
The cock's shrill clarions, or the echoing horn,

No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

I curfew, a bell rung in the evening; | 2 lea, a field. it was anciently the signal for extin. 3 clarion, a kind of trumpet; here, guishing fires.

I a sound like that of the trumpet.

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