[ THE VALLEY OF UNREST]
Once it smiled a silent dell Where the people did not dwell: They had gone unto the wars, Trusting to the mild-eyed stars, Nightly from their azure towers To keep watch above the flowers, In the midst of which all day The red sunlight lazily lay. Now each visitor shall confess The sad valley’s restlessness. Nothing there is motionless— Nothing save the airs that brood Over the magic solitude. Ah, by no wind are stirred those trees That palpitate like the chill seas Around the misty Hebrides! Ah, by no wind those clouds are driven That rustle through the unquiet heaven Unceasingly, from morn till even. Over the violets there that lie In myriad types of the human eye— Over the lilies there that wave And weep above a nameless grave! They wave—from out their fragrant tops Eternal dews come down in drops; They weep—from off their delicate stems Perennial tears descend in gems.
[ THE BURIAL OF
SIR JOHN MOORE
AT CORUNNA]
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 enclosed 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.