The western Democrat. [volume] (Charlotte, N.C.) 1852-1870, 1862-10-14
From the Richmond Enquirer.
BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.

Recent accounts Of the death and hurried burial
of seine of the officers aud soldiers in the South
ern army have brought to mind those wonderfully
stirring lines, composed by Rev. Charles Wolfe
in 1917, on the burial Of Sir John Moore. |
think your readers will be pleased to see them re-
produced at the present time, and in connection,
the following notice, taken from "ChambcrS' Cy
clopndia of English Literature, OF the author and
the poem:
''ReY. Charles Wolfe may be said to have earned
a literary Immortality by one short poem, and that
copied, with considerable closeness, from prose
account of the incident which it relates. Read
ing in the Edinburs Annual Register descrp-
tion OF the death and intcrmcnt Of Sir John Moore
the battlefield Of Corunna, this amiable young
poet turned it into verse with such taste, PathOs,
and even sublimity, that his poem has obtained an
impcrishablc place in our literature"
The passage in the Register is as follows: "Sir
John Moore mad often said that if he was killed
in battle, be wished to be buried where he tell.
The body was removed at midnight to the Cita-
del Of CUrunna. grave dug for him on the
ramparts there, by body Of the 9th Regiment.
No coffin could be procured and the officers OF
his staff wrapped the body, dressed as it Was, in i
military cloak aud blankets The mtermcut was
FASTENED, for about eight in the morning some
firing heard, and the officers feared that, if 4
serious attack were made they would be ordered
away, and not suffered to pay him their last duty.
The officers Of his family bore him to the grave;
the funeral service was read by the Chaplain and
the corpse was covered with earth
How often within the last few months, have
such touching scenes as this been witnessed on
g the dark and bloody ground Of Virginia.
F. j.
Not drum heard, not i funeral note,
AS his corpse to the rampant we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot,
Der the grave where our hero We buried
We buried him darby 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 or in shroud we wound him;
But he lay like warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him
Few and short were the prayers we said,
And We spoke not word Of sorrow,
But We stcadfastly gazcd the face that was
deaf,
And We bitterly thought of the morrow
We thought, as we followed his narrow bed.
And smoothcd down his lonely pillow,
That the fee and the stranger would tread DER
his head
And We tar away on the billUW.
Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone
And DER his cold ashes upraid him.
But little he'll reck, il they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him
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 sullcnly firing.
Slowly and sadly we laid him down.
From the field OF his fame fresh and CORY;
We carved not 4 line, and we raised not stone
But We left him alone with his glory