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 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 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.

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!

CHARLES WOLFE.

[Ill.u.s.tration: SIR WALTER SCOTT.]

PIBROCH OF DONUIL DHU.

Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, Pibroch of Donuil, Wake thy wild voice anew, Summon Clan Conuil.

Come away, come away, Hark to the summons!

Come in your war array, Gentles and commons.

Come from deep glen, and From mountains so rocky; The war pipe and pennon Are at Inverlocky.

Come every hill plaid, and True heart that wears one, Come every steel blade, and Strong hand that bears one.

Leave untended the herd, The flock without shelter; Leave the corpse uninterred, The bride at the altar; Leave the deer, leave the steer, Leave nets and barges; Come with your fighting gear, Broadswords and targes.

Come as the winds come, when Forests are rended; Come as the waves come, when Navies are stranded; Faster come, faster come, Faster and faster, Chief, va.s.sal, page, and groom, Tenant and master.

Fast they come, fast they come; See how they gather!

Wide waves the eagle plume Blended with heather.

Cast your plaids, draw your blades, Forward each man set!

Pibroch of Donuil Dhu Knell for the onset!

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

THE SOLDIER'S DREAM.

Our bugles sang truce, for the night cloud had lowered, And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky; And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered, The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.

When reposing that night on my pallet of straw By the wolf-scaring f.a.got that guarded the slain, At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw; And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again.

Methought from the battlefield's dreadful array Far, far, I had roamed on a desolate track; 'Twas autumn,--and sunshine arose on the way To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back.

I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft In life's morning march, when my bosom was young; I heard my own mountain goats bleating aloft, And knew the sweet strain that the corn reapers sung.

Then pledged we the wine cup, and fondly I swore From my home and my weeping friends never to part; My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er, And my wife sobbed aloud in her fullness of heart.

"Stay, stay with us!--rest! thou art weary and worn!"

And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay;-- But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn, And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

HOME THEY BROUGHT HER WARRIOR DEAD.

Home they brought her warrior dead: She nor swooned, nor uttered cry; All her maidens, watching, said, "She must weep or she will die."

Then they praised him, soft and low, Called him worthy to be loved, Truest friend and n.o.blest foe; Yet she neither spoke nor moved.

Stole a maiden from her place, Lightly to the warrior stept, Took the face cloth from the face; Yet she neither moved nor wept.

Rose a nurse of ninety years, Set his child upon her knee-- Like summer tempest came her tears-- "Sweet my child, I live for thee."

ALFRED TENNYSON.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

LAMENT OF MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS.

ON THE APPROACH OF SPRING.

Now Nature hangs her mantle green On every blooming tree, And spreads her sheets o' daisies white Out o'er the gra.s.sy lea: Now Phoebus cheers the crystal streams, And glads the azure skies; But nought can glad the weary wight That fast in durance lies.

Now lav'rocks wake the merry morn, Aloft on dewy wing; The merle, in his noon-tide bower, Makes woodland echoes ring; The mavis wild wi' mony a note Sings drowsy day to rest: In love and freedom they rejoice, Wi' care nor thrall opprest.

Now blooms the lily by the bank, The primrose down the brae; The hawthorne's budding in the glen, And milk-white is the slae; The meanest hind in fair Scotland May rove their sweets amang; But I, the Queen of a' Scotland, Maun lie in prison strang!

I was the Queen o' bonnie France, Where happy I hae been; Fu' lightly rase I in the morn, As blythe lay down at e'en: And I'm the sov'reign o' Scotland, And mony a traitor there; Yet here I lie in foreign bands, And never-ending care.