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Poems Every Child Should Know

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<h3>The Burial of Sir John Moore at Corunna.</h3> <div class="pre_poem">"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.) </div> <table class="poem" summary="poem"><tr><td><div class="stanza"> 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. </div> <div class="stanza"> 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. </div> <div class="stanza"> No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him. </div> <div class="stanza"> 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, And we bitterly thought of the morrow. </div> <div class="stanza"> 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! </div> <div class="stanza"> 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. </div> <div class="stanza"> But half of our heavy task was done When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing. </div> <div class="stanza"> 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! </div> </td></tr></table> C. Wolfe. <h3>The Eve of Waterloo.</h3> <div class="pre_poem">"The Eve of Waterloo," by Lord Byron (1788-1824). Here is another old reading-book gem that will always be dear to every boy's heart if he only reads it a few times. </div> <table class="poem" summary="poem"><tr><td><div class="stanza"> There was a sound of revelry by night, And Belgium's capital had gathered then Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men. A thousand hearts beat happily; and when Music arose with its voluptuous swell, Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again, And all went merry as a marriage-bell: But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell! </div> <div class="stanza"> Did ye not hear it? No; 'twas but the wind, Or the car rattling o'er the stony street. On with the dance! let joy be unconfined! No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet To chase the glowing hours with flying feet! But hark!—that heavy sound breaks in once more, As if the clouds its echo would repeat; And nearer, clearer, deadlier, than before! Arm! arm! it is—it is the cannon's opening roar! </div> <div class="stanza"> Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress And cheeks all pale, which, but an hour ago, Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness; And there were sudden partings, such as press The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs Which ne'er might be repeated: who could guess If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise? </div> <div class="stanza"> And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed, The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, And swiftly forming in the ranks of war; And the deep thunder peal on peal afar; And near, the beat of the alarming drum Roused up the soldier ere the morning star; While thronged the citizens with terror dumb, Or whispering with white lips, "The foe! They come! They come!" </div> <div class="stanza"> And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves, Dewy with Nature's tear-drops, as they pass, Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, Over the unreturning brave—alas! Ere evening to be trodden like the grass Which, now beneath them, but above shall grow In its next verdure, when this fiery mass Of living valour, rolling on the foe, And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low. </div> <div class="stanza"> Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay; The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife, The morn the marshalling in arms,—the day, Battle's magnificently stern array! The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which, when rent, The earth is covered thick with other clay, Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent, Rider, and horse—friend, foe—in one red burial blent! </div> </td></tr></table> Lord Byron. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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