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The redbreast oft, at evening hours,
Shall kindly lend his little aid,
With hoary moss, and gathered flowers,
To deck the ground where thou art laid.

When howling winds and beating rain
In tempests shake the sylvan cell,
Or 'midst the chase, on every plain,

The tender thought on thee shall dwell.

Each lonely scene shall thee restore,

For thee the tear be duly shed; Beloved till life can charm no more, And mourned till pity's self be dead.

WILLIAM COLLINS.

Bridal Song and Wirge.

A CYPRESS-BOUGH and a rose-wreath sweet, A wedding-robe and a winding-sheet,

A bridal-bed and a bier!

Thine be the kisses, maid,

And smiling love's alarms;

And thou, pale youth, be laid
In the grave's cold arms:
Each in his own charms-

Death and Hymen both are here.
So up with scythe and torch,
And to the old church porch,
While all the bells ring clear;
And rosy, rosy the bed shall bloom,
And earthy, earthy heap up the tomb.

Now tremble dimples on your cheek -
Sweet be your lips to taste and speak,
For he who kisses is near:

By her the bridegod fair,

In youthful power and force;

By him the grizard bare,

Pale knight on a pale horse,
To woo him to a corse-

Death and Hymen both are here.
So up with scythe and torch,
And to the old church porch,
While all the bells ring clear;
And rosy, rosy the bed shall bloom,
And earthy, earthy heap up the tomb.

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THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES.

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The Burial of Sir John Moore. 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 inclosed his breast,

Not in sheet or 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 that was
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.

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