4
Oh! pale grew the cheek of that chieftain, I ween,
When the shroud was unclosed, and no body was seen.
Then a voice from the kinsmen spoke louder in scorn---
'Twas the youth that had lov'd the fair Ellen of Lorn.
'I dream'd of my lady, I dream'd of her grief,
I dream'd 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 the rock of the ocean that beauty is borne;
Now joy to the house of fair Ellen of Lorn!
———
BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.
Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corse to 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' 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!
