English Narrative Poems

Narrative poetry, English; Readers -- Poetry
Then Denmark bless'd our chief,
    That he gave her wounds repose;
    And the sounds of joy and grief
    From her people wildly rose,
    As Death withdrew his shades from the day,                        50
    While the sun looked smiling bright
    O'er a wide and woful sight,
    Where the fires of funeral light
    Died away.


    VII

    Now joy, Old England, raise!                                      55
    For the tidings of thy might,
    By the festal cities' blaze,
    Whilst the wine-cup shines in light;
    And yet amidst that joy and uproar,
    Let us think of them that sleep,                                  60
    Full many a fathom deep,
    By thy wild and stormy steep,
    Elsinore!


    VIII

    Brave hearts! to Britain's pride
    Once so faithful and so true;                                     65
    On the deck of fame that died;--
    With the gallant good Riou[105];
    Soft sigh the winds of Heaven o'er their grave
    While the billow mournful rolls,
    And the mermaid's song condoles,                                  70
    Singing glory to the souls
    Of the brave.




CHARLES WOLFE


THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE AT CORUNNA[106]

    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,                             5
      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;                        10
    But he lay like a warrior taking his rest
      With his martial cloak around him.

    Few and short were the prayers we said,
      And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
    But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,               15
      And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

    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!                                  20

    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.

    But half of our weary task was done                               25
      When the clock struck the hour for retiring;
    And we heard the distant and random gun
      That the foe was sullenly firing.

    Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
      From the field of his fame fresh and gory;                      30
    We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone--
      But we left him alone with his glory.




LORD BYRON


THE PRISONER OF CHILLON

A FABLE


    I
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
English Narrative Poems

No reviews yet
