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Some might lament that I were cold,
As I, when this sweet day is gone, Which my lost heart, too soon grown old,
Insults with this untimely moan; They might lament-for I am one
Whom men love not—and yet regret, Unlike this day, which, when the sun
Shall on its stainless glory set, Will linger, though enjoy'd, like joy in memory yet.
THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.
Not a drum was heard, nor 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.
The sods with our bayonets turning-
And the lantern dimly burning.
Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him;
With his martial cloak around him.
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
And smooth'd down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his 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.
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 left him alone with his glory.
IF I had thought thou couldst have died,
I might not weep for thee;
That thou couldst mortal be!
The time would e'er be o’er,
And thou shouldst smile no more!
And think 'twill smile again;
That I must look in vain !
What thou ne'er left'st unsaid;
Sweet Mary! thou art dead!
All cold and all serene,
And where thy smiles have been!
While e'en thy chill, bleak corse I have,
Thou seemest still mine own;
And I am now alone!
Thou hast forgotten me;
In thinking too of thee:
Of light ne'er seen before,
And never can restore !
BONNY KILMENY gaed up the glen; But it wasna to meet Duneira's men, Nor the rosy monk of the isle to see, For Kilmeny was pure as pure could be. It was only to hear the yorlin sing, And pu' the cress-flower round the spring ; The scarlet hypp and the hindberrye, And the nut that hangs frae the hazel-tree: For Kilmeny was pure as pure could be. But lang may her minny look o'er the wa', And lang may she seek'i' the green-wood shaw; Lang the laird of Duneira blame, And lang, lang greet or Kilmeny come hame!
When many a day had come and fled, When grief grew calm, and hope was dead, When mass for Kilmeny's soul had been sung, When the bedes-man had prayed, and the deadbell Late, late in a gloamin, when all was still,
[rung, When the fringe was red on the westlin hill,
The wood was sere, the moon i’ the wane,
‘Kilmeny, Kilmeny, where have you been ?
Kilmeny looked up with a lovely grace, But nae smile was seen on Kilmeny's face; As still was her look, and as still was her ee, As the stillness that lay on the emerant lea, Or the mist that sleeps on a waveless sea. For Kilmeny had been she knew not where, And Kilmeny had seen what she could not declare; Kilmeny had been where the cock never crew, Where the rain never fell, and the wind never blew. But it seem'd as the harp of the sky had rung, And the airs of heaven play'd round her tongue, When she spake of the lovely forms she had seen, And a land where sin had never been; A land of love, and a land of light, Withouten sun, or moon, or night: Where the river swa'd a living stream, And the light a pure celestial beam : The land of vision it would seem, A still, an everlasting dream.
And oh, her beauty was fair to see,
And the soft desire of maiden's een