And all I remember is--friends flocking round
As I sat with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground;
And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine,
As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine,
Which (the burgesses voting by common consent)
Was no more than his due who brought the good news from Ghent.
ROBERT BROWNING.
THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE AT CORUNNA.
"The Burial of Sir John Moore" was one of my reading-lessons when I was
a child. A distinguished teacher says: "It has become a part of popular
education," as has also "The Eve of Waterloo" and "The Death of
Napoleon." They are all poems of great rhythmical swing, intense and
graphic. (1791-1823.)
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.
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