THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.

Nor 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 moonbeams' misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed 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 'll 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 with his glory.

O, SAY NOT THAT MY HEART IS COLD.

O, SAY not that my heart is cold

To aught that once could warm it, –
That Nature's form, so dear of old,
No more has power to charm it;
Or that the ungenerous world can chill
One glow of fond emotion

For those who made it dearer still,
And shared my wild devotion.

Still oft those solemn scenes I view,
In rapt and dreamy sadness,
Oft look on those who loved them too
With Fancy's idle gladness.
Again I longed to view the light
In Nature's features glowing,
Again to tread the mountain's height,
And taste the soul's o'erflowing.

Stern duty rose, and frowning flung
His leaden chain around me;

With iron look and sullen tongue
He muttered as he bound me:

"The mountain breeze, the boundless heaven,

Unfit for toil the creature;

These for the free alone are given;

And what have slaves with Nature?"

This song is adapted to the pathetic Irish air of Grammachree, and in his account of its composition Wolfe said that on one occasion "I sung the air over and over until I burst into a flood of salt tears, in which mood I composed the song"; but it is also known that he was engaged to Mary Grierson, a beautiful girl of Dublin, who died young, to whose name the exquisite elegy would apply.

IF I had thought thou couldst have died,

I might not weep for thee;

But I forgot, when by thy side,

That thou couldst mortal be;

It never through my mind had passed
The time would e'er be o'er,

And I on thee should look my last,
And thou shouldst smile no more.

And still upon that face I look,
And think 't will smile again;
And still the thought I will not brook
That I must look in vain;

But when I speak, thou dost not say

What thou ne'er left'st unsaid,

And now I feel, as well I may,

Sweet Mary! thou art dead.

If thou wouldst stay e'en as thou art,
All cold and all serene,

I still might press thy silent heart,
And where thy smiles have been.
While e'en thy chill bleak corse I have,
Thou seemest still mine own;
But there I lay thee in thy grave,
And I am now alone!

I do not think, where'er thou art,
Thou hast forgotten me;

And I perhaps may soothe this heart,
In thinking, too, of thee.

Yet there was round thee such a dawn Of light ne'er seen before,

As fancy never could have drawn,

And never can restore.

JEREMIAH JOSEPH CALLANAN.

EREMIAH JOSEPH CALLANAN, who was the first to

JERE

translate ancient Irish poetry with real spirit and faithfulness to the idiom, and whose original poems entitle him to be mentioned among the poets of Ireland, was born in Cork, in 1795, of humble parentage, his father being servant to a physician. He was sent to Maynooth College to be educated for the priesthood, but abandoned it after two years' stay, and betook himself to Dublin with the idea of a career in literature. He became a tutor for the purpose of maintaining himself while he studied in Trinity College, where he obtained credit for two prize poems. Being reduced to poverty through shiftlessness, he enlisted as a private in the Royal Irish regiment, from which he was discharged, in the Isle of Wight, after a brief term of service, by the intervention of his friends. He obtained a tutorship in a family living in the western part of the County Cork, and while there wrote his local poems, inspired by the beautiful scenery of Lake Killarney, the Muskerry mountains, and the sources of the Lee. With a number of these he returned to Cork, with the idea of publishing them by subscription, but abandoned his purpose, ostensibly because it was not a dignified method, and probably also from want of energy and perseverance. He became an assistant in the school of Dr. Maginn, who introduced him to Blackwood's Magazine, in which some of his poems and translations from the Irish