The New England Weekly Review

General Fraser was one of those brave and
generous men whose fate excites the sympathy
equally of friend and foe. He was considered
among the very best officers of the British ar-
my and was picked off at the command of the
traitor Arnold, by one of several sharp-shooters,
whom he had stationed in trees for that purpose.
He was buried at 6 o'clock, P. M. on a hill near
Saratoga, where a breast-work had been con-
structed.

"At this hour the corpse was removed, and
we saw all the Generals, with their retinues, on
the hill, assisting at the funeral ceremony. The
English chaplain Mr. Brudenel officiated. Can-
non balls flew around and above this assembled
mourners, General Gates protested afterwards,
that, had he known what was going on, he
would have stopped the fire immediately.—
Many cannon-balls flew close by me, but my
whole attention was engaged by the funeral
scene, where I saw my husband exposed to im-
minent danger."—Baroness de Riedesel's Me-
moirs.

The incessant cannonade during the solemni-
ty, the steady attitude and unaltered voice with
which the chaplain officiated, though frequently
covered with dust, which the shot threw upon
all sides of him; the mute but expressive mix-
ture of sensibility and indignation upon every
countenance: these objects will remain to the
last of life upon the mind of every man who was
present.—Burgoyne's "State of the Expedition
from Canada."

Done was the battle shock,—
And on the blood-red plain,
Where foe meets foe as rock meets rock,
Lie strewn the noble slain:

And on the brown hill's crest,
As evening's shadows fall,
They're gathering to his place of rest
'The noblest of them all.

His plume above the brave
Stream'd like a leading star,—
Still onward did his falchion wave,
The vanguard of the war.

'Mid the battle's fiercest swell
He stemm'd the rolling tide;—
And there as brave men fell, he fell,
As brave men die—he died.

With trailing arms they come,
The slowly tramping files,
With shrieking fife and muffled drum
And the wailing horn at whiles:

For they bear him, as is meet,
The noble and the brave,
With a soldier's cloak for a winding-sheet;
To a soldier's rampart grave.

Down on the broad hill's brow
The night came dark and fast;
And flickering glar'd the torch-light's glow
As the moaning wind sigh'd past;

And, ever and anon,
As we stood amid the gloom,
Came the lurid flash of the foeman's gun;
And the shot and the long deep boom:

Then woman's voice was heard
Sobbing fitfully and low,
But the man of God the holy word
Read steadily and slow,

Though dark each face became.
And sterner grew each eye,
As we saw the slash of the volley'd flame,
And the deadly shower hiss'd by.

The holy man swerv'd not—
But our hands were on our swords.
As the cannon's voice and the hurrying shot
Broke in on the funeral words.

Stern were our thoughts, and deep,
But too full were our hearts for tears,
As we left him there to his last long sleep,
In the pride of his early years:

Willis's Magazine:
G. L.