THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE AT

CORUNNA°

CHARLES WOLFE

CHARLES WOLFE (1791-1823), an Irish clergyman, was born in Dublin. His fame rests upon a single poem, but this poem is known wherever the English language is spoken. It was first published in an Irish newspaper without the author's signature. It was extensively copied and many different people claimed the authorship of it. Of this poem Byron said to Shelley, 'I will show you one you have never seen that I consider little if at all inferior to the best the present prolific age has brought forth.'

Not a drum was heard, not 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.

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 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,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;

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But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, 15 And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed

And smoothed 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.

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,

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From the field of his fame fresh and gory;

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We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone — But we left him alone with his glory!

YOUNG LOCHINVAR

SIR WALTER SCOTT

SIR WALTER SCOTT (1771-1832) was born in the 'Old Town' of Edinburgh. As a child he was sickly, and he was sent to live with his grandfather in the country. Sandy Knowe, his grandfather's home, was in a district 'in which every field has its battle and every rivulet its song.' Here it was that Scott began to gather that wonderful knowledge of Border history and the legends and ballads of his native land, which he drew upon so extensively in his poems and novels. Educated for the law his natural bent was too strong within him, and though he filled the office of sheriff for many years he early drifted into literature. His first important original work was the 'Lay of the Last Minstrel.' This was followed by Marmion' and the 'Lady of the Lake.' Had Scott written nothing but his poems he would still occupy a distinguished place in literature, but great as he was as a poet, he was far greater as a novelist. His first novel 'Waverley' appeared anonymously, but it took the world by storm. Unfortunately Scott had become connected with a publishing house in Edinburgh, and the failure of this house involved him in ruin, and the latter part of his life was spent in a heroic struggle to pay debts that he had himself never incurred. He literally gave his life to the work, for he broke down under the terrific strain he imposed upon himself, but not till he had given to the world that wonderful collection of stories known as the Waverley Novels.' In invention, imagination, and breadth Scott ranks but little below the very greatest among the world's writers, and thousands of people yearly honor his memory by pilgrimages to his home at Abbotsford, and to the scenes immortalized in his novels and poems.

O, YOUNG Lochinvar is come out of the West!

Through all the wide Border his steed was the best; And save his good broadsword, he weapons had none; He rode all unarm'd, and he rode all alone.

So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.

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He stay'd not for brake and he stopp'd not for stone; He swam the Eske River where ford there was none; But ere he alighted at Netherby gate,

The bride had consented, the gallant came late;

For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,
Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.

So boldly he enter'd the Netherby Hall,

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Among bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all;

Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword 15 (For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word), 'O, come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar ? '

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'I long woo'd your daughter, my suit you denied ; —
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide;
And now am I come with this lost Love of mine
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine.
There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far,
That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar !'

The bride kiss'd the goblet: the knight took it up, 25 He quaff'd off the wine, and he threw down the cup. She look'd down to blush, and she look'd up to sigh, With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye.

He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar, —

'Now tread we a measure!' said young

Lochinvar.

So stately his form, and so lovely her face,
That never a hall such a galliard° did grace;

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While her mother did fret, and her father did fume, And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume;

And the bride-maidens whispered, "Twere better by

far,

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To have match'd our fair cousin with young Lochinvar!'

One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,

When they reach'd the hall door, and the charger

stood near;

So light to the croup the fair lady he swung,

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So light to the saddle before her he sprung!
'She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur;
They'll have fleet steeds that follow,' quoth young
Lochinvar.

There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Netherby clan;

Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran;

There was racing and chasing, on Cannobie lea,
But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see.

So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,

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Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar ?