BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE

CHARLES WOLFE

This poem was written after reading an account of the battle of Corunna (Spain) between the English and the French, in 1809. Sir John Moore was commander of the English troops. Abandoned by the Spaniards, and threatened by a great army under Napoleon, he was obliged to retreat, and he was killed while the troops were embarking to leave Corunna. The poem describes his burial in the citadel by his loyal men.

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.

We buried him darkly, at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning;
By the struggling moonbeams' 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;

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

We thought, as we hollowed 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,

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 in his glory.

up'braid, to charge with something | reck, care; take heed. go'ry, covered with blood.

wrong.

CHARLES WOLFE (1791-1823) was a native of Dublin, Ireland, and a graduate of Trinity College, where he was famed for scholarship and literary ability. Besides this renowned poem, Wolfe wrote one or two songs full of tender pathos and delicate beauty.

GRASS

JOHN RUSKIN

GATHER a single blade of grass, and examine for a minute its narrow sword-shaped strip of fluted green. Nothing there, as it seems, is of notable goodness or beauty. There is a very little strength, and a very little tallness, and a few delicate long lines meeting in a point, not a perfect point either, but blunt and unfinished, by no means a creditable or apparently much-cared-for example of Nature's workmanship, made, as it seems, only to be trodden on to-day, and to-morrow to be cast into the oven. There is also a little pale and hollow stalk,

feeble and flaccid, leading down to the dull brown fibres of roots.

And yet, think of it well, and judge whether of all the gorgeous flowers that beam in summer air, and of all strong and goodly trees, pleasant to the eyes or good for food-stately palm and pine, strong ash and oak, scented citron, burdened vine there be any by man so deeply loved, by God so highly graced, as that narrow point of feeble green.

Consider what we owe merely to the meadow grass, to the covering of the dark ground by that glorious enamel, by the companies of those soft, and countless, and peaceful spears. The fields! Follow forth for a little time the thoughts of all that we ought to recognize in those words. All spring and summer is in them - the walks by silent, scented paths the rests in noonday heat- the joy of herds. and flocks — the power of all shepherd life and meditation - the life of sunlight upon the world, falling in emerald streaks, and falling in soft blue shadows, where else it would have struck upon the dark mould or scorching dust-pastures beside the racing brooks-soft banks and knolls of lowly hills thymy slopes of down overlooked by the blue line of lifted sea- crisp lawns all dim with early dew, or smooth in evening warmth of barred sunshine, dinted by happy feet, and softening in their fall the sound of loving voices-all these

are summed in those simple words, and these are not all.

We may not measure to the full the depth of this heavenly gift in our own land, though still, as we think of it longer, the infinite meaning of that meadow sweetness, Shakespeare's peculiar joy, would open on us more and more. Yet we have it but in part. Go out, in the spring time, among the meadows that slope from the shores of the Swiss lakes to the roots of their lower mountains. There the grass grows deep and free; and, as you follow the winding mountain-paths, beneath arching boughs all veiled and dim with blossom-look up towards the higher hills, where the waves of everlasting green roll silently into their long inlets among the shadows of the pines; and we may, perhaps, at last know the meaning of those quiet words of the 147th Psalm, "He maketh grass to grow upon the mountains."

There are also several lessons connected with this subject which we must not allow to escape us. Observe, the peculiar characters of the grass, which adapt it especially for the service of man, are its apparent humility and cheerfulness: its humility, in that it seems created only for lowest service-appointed to be trodden on and fed upon; its cheerfulness, in that it seems to exult under all kinds of violence and suffering. You roll it, and it is stronger the next day; you mow it, and it