1

The Burial of Sir John Moore
Not 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,

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,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;

But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was
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'’e

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—

For Home

and Country

For

Home

and

But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

Country 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 stoneBut we left him alone in his glory.

CHARLES WOLFE.

Soldier, Rest!

Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,

Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking; Dream of battle-fields no more,

Days of danger, nights of waking.

In our isle's enchanted hall,

Hands unseen thy couch are strewing;

Fairy strains of music fall,

Every sense in slumber dewing.

Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,

Dream of fighting fields no more:

Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking,

Morn of toil, nor night of waking.

No rude sound shall reach thine ear,
Armor's clang, or war-steed's champing;
Trump nor pibroch summon here,

Mustering clan, or squadron tramping.
Yet the lark's shrill fife may come,

At the day-break, from the fallow,
And the bittern sound his drum,
Booming from the sedgy shallow.
Ruder sounds shall none be near,
Guards nor warders challenge here,

Here's no war-steed's neigh and champing,
Shouting clans, or squadrons stamping.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

From "The Lady of the Lake."

For Home and Country

Recessional

God of our fathers, known of old-
Lord of our far-flung battle-line—
Beneath Whose awful Hand we hold
Dominion over palm and pine—
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget-lest we forget!

The tumult and the shouting dies-
The captains and the kings depart―

Still stands Thine ancient Sacrifice,
An humble and a contrite heart.

For

Home

Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget-lest we forget!

and

Country Far-called our navies melt away—

On dune and headland sinks the fire-
Lo, all our pomp of yesterday

Is one with Nineveh and Tyre!
Judge of the Nations, spare us yet,
Lest we forget-lest we forget!

If, drunk with sight of power, we loose
Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe-
Such boasting as the Gentiles use

Or lesser breeds without the Law-
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget-lest we forget!

For heathen heart that puts her trust
In reeking tube and iron shard-
All valiant dust that builds on dust,

And guarding calls not Thee to guard-
For frantic boast and foolish word,

Thy Mercy on Thy People, Lord! Amen.

RUDYARD KIPLING.

The Fatherland

Where is the true man's fatherland?
Is it where he by chance is born?
Doth not the yearning spirit scorn

In such scant borders to be spanned?
Oh yes! his fatherland must be
As the blue heaven wide and free!

Is it alone where freedom is,

Where God is God and man is man?
Doth he not claim a broader span
For the soul's love of home than this?
Oh yes! his fatherland must be
As the blue heaven wide and free!

Where'er a human heart doth wear
Joy's myrtle-wreath or sorrow's gyves,
Where'er a human spirit strives
After a life more true and fair,
There is the true man's birthplace grand,
His is a world-wide fatherland!

Where'er a single slave doth pine,

Where'er one man may help another,—
Thank God for such a birthright, brother,-
That spot of earth is thine and mine!
There is the true man's birthplace grand,
His is a world-wide fatherland!

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

For Home

and Country