The meteor flag of England

Shall yet terrific burn;
Till danger's troubled night depart,

And the star of peace return.
Then, then, ye ocean-warriors !
Our song and feast shall flow

To the fame of your name,
When the storm hath ceased to blow;
When the fiery fight is heard no more,
And the storm has ceased to blow.

Campbell

SOLDIER, rest! thy warfare o'er,

Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking ;
Dream of battled 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,

Armour's clang, or war-steed champing ;
Trump nor pibroch summon here

Mustering clan, or squadron tramping.

may come

Yet the lark's shrill fife

At the daybreak 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.

Scott.

.

а

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,
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'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.

a

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.

Wolfe.

25 The Loss of the Royal George'

TOLL for the brave !

The brave that are no more !
All sunk beneath the wave

Fast by their native shore !

Eight hundred of the brave,
Whose courage

well was tried,
Had made the vessel heel,

And laid her on her side.

A land-breeze shook the shrouds,

And she was overset;
Down went the Royal George,

With all her crew complete.

Toll for the brave !

Brave Kempenfelt is gone;
His last sea-fight is fought,
His work of glory done.

B

It was not in the battle ;

No tempest gave the shock ;
She sprang no fatal leak;

She ran upon no rock.
His sword was in its sheath,

His fingers held the pen,
When Kempenfelt went down

With twice four hundred men.

Weigh the vessel up

Once dreaded by our foes !
And mingle with our cup

The tear that England owes.
Her timbers yet are sound,
And she

may

float again
Full charged with England's thunder,

And plough the distant main.
But Kempenfelt is gone,

His victories are o'er ;
And he and his eight hundred
Shall plough the wave no more.

Cowper.

26

To Abraham Lincoln

O CAPTAIN ! my Captain ! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought

is won,

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 !
O the bleeding drops of red !
Where on the deck my Captain lies,

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!
This arm beneath

your

head !
It is some dream that on the deck

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 !
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

Whitman.

27

Dirge
How sleep the Brave, who sink to rest
By all their country's wishes blest!
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,
Returns to deck their hallow'd mould,
She there shall dress a sweeter sod
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.

By fairy hands their knell is rung ;
By forms unseen their dirge is sung ;