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The meteor flag of England
Shall yet terrific burn;
And the star of peace return.
To the fame of your name,
SOLDIER, rest! thy warfare o'er,
Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking ;
Days of danger, nights of waking.
Hands unseen thy couch are strewing,
Every sense in slumber dewing.
No rude sound shall reach thine ear,
Armour's clang, or war-steed champing ;
Mustering clan, or squadron tramping.
meteor flag) flashing like a meteor. dewing] steeping, immersing. pibroch) a martial air or dirge on bagpipe: pi pronounced as pea.
Yet the lark's shrill fife
At the daybreak from the fallow,
Booming from the sedgy shallow.
24 The Burial of Sir John Moore Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corpse 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,
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'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 ;
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
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 we left him alone with his glory.
25 The Loss of the Royal George'
TOLL for the brave !
The brave that are no more !
Fast by their native shore !
Eight hundred of the brave,
well was tried,
And laid her on her side.
A land-breeze shook the shrouds,
And she was overset;
With all her crew complete.
Toll for the brave !
Brave Kempenfelt is gone;
It was not in the battle ;
No tempest gave the shock ;
She ran upon no rock.
His fingers held the pen,
With twice four hundred men.
Weigh the vessel up
Once dreaded by our foes !
The tear that England owes.
And plough the distant main.
His victories are o'er ;
To Abraham Lincoln
O CAPTAIN ! my Captain ! our fearful trip is done,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But O heart! heart! heart !
Fallen cold and dead.
O Captain ! my Captain ! rise up and hear the bells ; Rise up—for you the flag is flung-for you the bugle
trills, For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths—for you the
shores a-crowding, For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here, Captain ! dear father!
You've fallen cold and dead.
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still, My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will; The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed
and done, From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won ;
Exult, O shores! and ring, O bells !
By fairy hands their knell is rung ;