But the day was slowly breaking ere their holy OUR bugles sang truĉe,—for the night-cloud had work was done, lowered, And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky; And thousands had sunk on the ground over powered, The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die. When reposing that night on my pallet of straw, By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain; At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw, And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again. Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array, Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track: 'T was autumn, and sunshine arose on the way To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back. I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft young; I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, And knew the sweet strain that the cornreapers sung. Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore, From my home and my weeping friends never to part; My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er, And my wife sobbed aloud in her fullness of heart. "Stay, stay with us, worn"; While thus I mused, still gazing, gazing still, On beds of moss that spread the window-sill, I deemed no moss my eyes had ever seen Had been so lovely, brilliant, fresh, and green, - rest, thou art weary and And guessed some infant hand had placed it there, And fain was their war-broken soldier to And prized its hue, so exquisite, so rare. But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn, THOMAS CAMPBELL, How sweet it was to breathe that cooler air, And told of twenty years that I had spent Feelings on feelings mingling, doubling rose; I could not reckon minutes, hours, nor years, Two shadows then I saw, two voices heard, The child approached, and with her fingers light ROBERT BLOOMFIELD. SOLDIER, REST! THY WARFARE O'ER. SOLDIER, rest! thy warfare o'er, Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking; Dream of battled fields no more, Days of danger, nights of waking. In our isle's enchanted hall, Hands unseen thy couch are strewing, Every sense in slumber dewing. No rude sound shall reach thine ear, Mustering clan, or squadron tramping. At the daybreak from the fallow, Booming from the sedgy shallow. Here's no war-steed's neigh and champing, Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done, Bugles here shall sound reveille. Sleep! thy hounds are by thee lying; How thy gallant steed lay dying. SIR WALTER SCOTT. THE KNIGHT'S TOMB. WHERE is the grave of Sir Arthur O'Kellyn? His soul is with the saints, I trust. SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. DRIVING HOME THE COWS. OUT of the clover and blue-eyed grass He turned them into the river-lane; One after another he let them pass, Then fastened the meadow bars again. Under the willows, and over the hill, He patiently followed their sober pace; The merry whistle for once was still, And something shadowed the sunny face. Only a boy! and his father had said He never could let his youngest go; Two already were lying dead Under the feet of the trampling foe. But after the evening work was done, And the frogs were loud in the meadow-swamp, Over his shoulder he slung his gun And stealthily followed the foot-path damp, Across the clover and through the wheat DIRGE FOR A SOLDIER. CLOSE his eyes; his work is done! Fold him in his country's stars, Roll the drum and fire the volley! What to him are all our wars ?-What but death-bemocking folly? Lay him low, lay him low, In the clover or the snow! Leave him to God's watching eye; Trust him to the hand that made him. Mortal love weeps idly by ; God alone has power to aid him. And shed no tear, though think you must Though by the places where they fell, Paces his everlasting round. Yet when they set their country free, Not there, but risen, redeemed, they go They gained a better peace than ours. PHO BE CARY. Here's no war-steed's neigh and champing, Shouting clans or squadrons stamping. Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done, While our slumberous spells assail ye, Dream not, with the rising sun, Bugles here shall sound reveille. Sleep! the deer is in his den; Sleep! thy hounds are by thee lying; Sleep! nor dream in yonder glen How thy gallant steed lay dying. SIR WALTER SCOTT. THE KNIGHT'S TOMB. grave WHERE is the grave of Sir Arthur O'Kellyn? SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. DRIVING HOME THE COWS. OUT of the clover and blue-eyed grass He turned them into the river-lane; One after another he let them pass, Then fastened the meadow bars again. Under the willows, and over the hill, He patiently followed their sober pace; The merry whistle for once was still, And something shadowed the sunny face. Only a boy! and his father had said He never could let his youngest go; Two already were lying dead Under the feet of the trampling foe. But after the evening work was done, And the frogs were loud in the meadow-swamp, Over his shoulder he slung his gun And stealthily followed the foot-path damp, Across the clover and through the wheat DIRGE FOR A SOLDIER. CLOSE his eyes; his work is done! Hand of man or kiss of woman? Lay him low, lay him low, Fold him in his country's stars, Leave him to God's watching eye; Trust him to the hand that made him. Mortal love weeps idly by ; God alone has power to aid him. |