4
"I dreamed of my lady. I dreamed of her grief,
I dreamed that her lord was a barbarous chief;
On a rock of the ocean, fair Ellen did seem:
Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream!'
In dust low the traitor has knelt to the ground,
And the desert reveal'd where his lady was found;
From a rock of the ocean that beauty is born;
Now joy to the house of fair Ellen of Lorn!
ON THE DEATH OF SIR JOHN MOORE.
Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corse o'er the ramparts we hurried,
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot,
O'er the grave where our hero was buried.
We burried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning,
By the struggling moonbeams dusky light,
And our lanterns dimly burning.
No useless coffin enclosed his breast
Nor 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 to-morrow-
We thought-as we hallowed his narrow bed,
And smoothed down his lonely pillow-
How the foe and the stranger would tread ohis head,
And we far away on the billow!
