THE DEAD FRIEND.

OT to the grave, not to the grave,

my Soul,

Descend to contemplate

The form that once was dear.

The Spirit is not there

Which kindled that dead eye,

Which throbbed in that cold heart,

Which in that motionless hand

Hath met thy friendly grasp.

The Spirit is not there,

It is but lifeless, perishable flesh

That moulders in the grave;

Earth, air, and water's ministering particles

Now to the elements

Resolved, their uses done.

Not to the grave, not to the grave, my Soul,

Follow thy friend beloved,

The Spirit is not there.

Often together have we talked of death;
How sweet it were to see

All doubtful things made clear;
How sweet it were with powers
Such as the Cherubim,

To view the depth of Heaven.
Oh, Edmund! thou hast first,
Begun the travel of Eternity.
I look upon the stars,

And think that thou art there,

Unfettered as the thought that follows thee.

And we have often said how sweet it were With unseen ministry of angel power

To watch the friends we loved.

Edmund, we did not err.

Sure I have felt thy presence. Thou hast given A birth to holy thought,

Hast kept me from the world unstained and

pure.

Edmund, we did not err.

Our best affections here,

They are not like the toys of infancy;

The Soul outgrows them not;

We do not cast them off;

Oh, if it could be so,

It were indeed a dreadful thing to die.

Not to the grave, not to the grave, my Soul,

Follow thy friend beloved;

But in the lonely hour,

But in the evening walk,

Think that he companies thy solitude;

Think that he holds with thee

Mysterious intercourse;

And, though remembrance wake a tear,
There will be joy in grief.

(Southey.)

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.

OT a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corpse 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 sod with our bayonets turning,
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,
And the lantern 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 the morrow.

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed,

And smoothed down his lonely pillow,