On the deathlefs page, words half fo fage And had he not high honour? The dark rock-pines, like toffing plumes, Over his bier to wave, And God's own hand, in that lovely land, In that deep grave without a name, Shall break again-moft wondrous thought! Before the judgment day; And ftand with glory wrapped around, On the hills he never trod, And speak of the ftrife that won our life, O filent tomb in Moab's land, O dark Beth-Peor's hill, Speak to these curious hearts of ours, He hides them deep, like the facred fleep Of him He loved fo well.* * The Editor regrets his inability to give the name of the author of these lines, which form one of the most exquisitely beautiful odes in the English language. V. THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. OT a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corpfe to the ramparts we hurried; Not a foldier difcharged his farewell fhot O'er the grave where our hero we buried. We buried him darkly at dead of night, No ufelefs coffin confined his breaft, Nor in fheet nor in fhroud we wound him; Few and short were the prayers we said, We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed, [head, That the foe and the ftranger would tread o'er his And we far away on the billow. Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, But nothing he'll reck, if they let him fleep on But half of our heavy task was done, When the clock told the hour for retiring; And we heard the diftant and random gun Of the enemy fullenly firing. Slowly and fadly 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. Wolfe. VI. DEPARTED FRIENDS. RIEND after friend departs; Who hath not loft a friend? There is no union here of hearts That finds not here an end; Were this frail world our final reft, Living or dying none were bleft. Beyond the flight of time Beyond the reign of death There furely is fome bleffed clime There is a world above, Where parting is unknown- Formed for the good alone; Thus ftar by ftar declines, As morning high and higher fhines Nor fink thofe ftars in empty night, But hide themselves in Heaven's own light. R. MONTGOMERY. VII. THE DEPARTED MISSIONARY. HOU art gone to the grave! but we will not deplore thee, Though forrows and darkness encompass the tomb; The Saviour has paffed through its portal before thee, And the lamp of His love is thy guide through the gloom! Thou art gone to the grave! we no longer behold thee, Nor tread the rough path of the world by thy fide; But the wide arms of Mercy are spread to enfold thee, And finners may die, for THE SINLESS has died! Thou art gone to the grave! and, its manfion forfaking, Thou art gone to the grave! but we will not deplore thee, Whofe God was thy ranfom, thy guardian and guide: He gave thee, He took thee, and He will reftore thee; And death has no fting, for the Saviour has died! BISHOP HEBER. VIII. THE DEPARTED CHILD. IND haft thou fought thy heavenly home, The realms where forrow dare not come, Where life is joy? Pure at thy death as at thy birth, Thy fpirit caught no taint from earth, Defpair was in our laft farewell, As closed thine eye; Cafa Wappy! Tears of our anguifh may not tell When thou didst die; |