Each one the holy vault doth hold, - And each St. Clair was buried there, With candle, with book, and with knell; But the sea-caves rung, and the wild winds sung The dirge of lovely Rosabelle. SIR WALTER SCOTT. PIBROCH OF DONUIL DHU. PIBROCH of Donuil Dhu, Wake thy wild voice anew, Hark to the summons! Come from deep glen, and True heart that wears one, Leave untended the herd, Leave the corpse uninterr'd, Cast your plaids, draw your blades, Forward each man set! Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, Knell for the onset! SIR WALTER SCOTT. LOVE OF COUNTRY.1 BREATHES there the man, with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said, This is my own, my native land! Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned, From wandering on a foreign strand? 1 This is an extract from the Lay of the Last Minstrel. If such there breathe, go, mark him well: High though his titles, proud his name, SIR WALTER SCOTT. LIFE AND DEATH. LIFE! I know not what thou art, Life! we've been long together Through pleasant and through cloudy weather; Then steal away, give little warning, Say not Good Night, but in some brighter clime Bid me Good Morning. ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD.1 1 ANNA LÆTITIA BARBAULD, the daughter of the Rev. John Aikin, was born in 1743, and married in 1774 to the Rev. Rochemont Barbauld, a dissenting minister. She was a prolific writer, chiefly for children and on educational and political subjects. Some of her poems have considerable merit. She died in 1825. THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE, AT CORUNNA.1 NOT a drum was heard, not a funeral note, We buried him darkly at dead of night, No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Not in sheet nor 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, But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, We thought as we hollow'd his narrow bed That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, And we far away on the billow! The British army, under Sir John Moore, entered Spain in 1808. They were forced to retreat before the French to Corunna, where they made a gallant stand, and after hard fighting repulsed the French, January 16, 1809. Sir John Moore was fatally wounded in this battle and buried the same night. The next day the army was safely embarked on board the British Reet. Lightly they 'll talk of the spirit that's gone, 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 stone, But we left him alone with his glory. CHARLES WOLFE.1 BOAT SONG. HAIL to the chief who in triumph advances! Earth lend it sap anew, Gayly to bourgeon, and broadly to grow; Sends our shout back again, Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!" 1 CHARLES WOLFE, a connection of General James Wolfe, the ero of Quebec, was born in Dublin, 1791, and educated at Dublin University. He entered the church and became curate of Donoughmore. He wrote, besides sermons, various essays and "ome poetry, but has secured a lasting remembrance by this ingle famous poem. He died at Cork in 1823. |