THE SOLDIER'S DREAM. OUR bugles sang truce; for the night-cloud had lowered, When reposing that night on my pallet of straw, And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again. Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back. I flew to the pleasant fields, traversed so oft In life's morning march, when my bosom was young; I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung. Then pledged we the winecup, and fondly I swore And my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of heart. IT IS NOT BEAUTY I DEMAND. Stay, stay with us!-rest; thou art weary and worn! THOMAS CAMPBELL. IT IS NOT BEAUTY I DEMAND. IT is not beauty I demand: A crystal brow, the moon's despair ; Tell me not of your starry eyes; A bloomy pair of vermeil cheeks, Like Hebe's in her ruddiest hours; A breath that softer music speaks Than summer winds a-wooing flowers. These are but gauds; nay, what are lips? IT IS NOT BEAUTY I DEMAND. And what are cheeks, but ensigns oft, Eyes can with baleful ardor burn, Poison can breathe, that erst perfumed; There's many a white hand holds an urn, With lovers' hearts to dust consumed. For crystal brows, there's naught within: Give me, instead of beauty's bust, One in whose gentle bosom I Could pour my secret heart of woes, Like the care-burdened honey-fly, That hides his murmurs in the rose; My earthly comforter! whose love Hers could not stay, for sympathy. THOMAS CAREW. WILLIE WINKIE. WEE Willie Winkie rins through the town, Tirlin' at the window, cryin' at the lock, "Are the weans in their bed?- for it's now ten o'clock." Hey, Willie Winkie! are ye comin' ben? The cat's singin' gay thrums to the sleepin' hen, The doug's speldered on the floor, and disna gie a cheep; But here's a waukrife laddie, that winna fa' asleep. Onything but sleep, ye rogue!—glow'rin' like the moon, Rumblin', tumblin' roun' about, crawin' like a cock, Hey, Willie Winkie! the wean's in a creel! Wearie is the mither that has a storie wean, A wee stumpie stoussie, that canna rin his lane, That has a battle aye wi' sleep, before he'll close an ee; But a kiss frae aff his rosy lips gies strength anew to me. WILLIAM MILLER. THE CHESS-BOARD. My little love, do you remember, Ah! still I see your soft white hand Hovering warm o'er Queen and Knight. Brave Pawns in valiant battle stand; The double Castles guard the wings; The Bishop, bent on distant things, Moves, sidling, through the fight. Our fingers touch; our glances meet, And falter; falls your golden hair Against my cheek; your bosom sweet Is heaving. Down the field, your Queen Rides slow, her soldiery all between, And checks me unaware. Ah me the little battle's done: Disperst is all its chivalry. Full many a move, since then, have we 'Mid life's perplexing checkers made, And many a game with Fortune played: |