4
Then a voice from the kinsmen spoke louder in scorn
'Twas the youth that had loved the fair Ellen of Lorn.
"I dreamed of my lady. I dreamed of her grief,
I dreamed that her lord was a barbarous chief;
On a rock of the ocean, fair Ellen did seem;
Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream!"
In dust low the traitor has knelt to the ground,
And the desert reveal'd where his lady was found;
From a rock of the ocean that beauty is borne
Now joy to the house of fair Ellen of Lorn!
ON THE DEATH OF SIR JOHN MOORE.
Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corse o'er the ramparts we hurried,
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot,
O'er the grave where our hero was buried.
We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning,
By the struggling moonbeams dusky light,
And our lanterns 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!
