The Annual Biography and Obituary, Volume 10 (Google eBook)

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Longman., 1826 - Great Britain
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Page 262 - The place of fame and elegy supply: And many a holy text around she strews, That teach the rustic moralist to die.
Page 77 - By the struggling moonbeam's 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.
Page 96 - And still upon that face I look, And think 'twill 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.
Page 77 - 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!
Page 95 - 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 'twill 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...
Page 77 - 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...
Page 77 - 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.
Page 96 - 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...
Page 413 - Report of the Lords of the Committee of Council, appointed for the consideration of all matters relating to trade and foreign plantations...
Page 77 - 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.

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