So, we were left galloping, Joris and I,
    Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky;
    The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh,
   ’Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff;
    Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white,
    And “Gallop,” gasped Joris, “for Aix is in sight!”

   “How they’ll greet us!”—­and all in a moment his roan
    Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone;
    And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight
    Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate,
    With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim,
    And with circles of red for his eye-sockets’ rim.

    Then I cast loose my buff-coat, each holster let fall,
    Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all,
    Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear,
    Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse without peer;
    Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good,
    Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood.

    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.

    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.

    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.

    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!

    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.