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But the day was slowly breaking ere their holy OUR bugles sang truĉe,—for the night-cloud had

work was done,

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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
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 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";

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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.
stay ;-

But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn,
And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.

THOMAS CAMPBELL,

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How sweet it was to breathe that cooler air,
And take possession of my father's chair!
Beneath my elbow, on the solid frame,
Appeared the rough initials of my name,
Cut forty years before! The same old clock
Struck the same bell, and gave my heart a shock
I never can forget. A short breeze sprung,
And while a sigh was trembling on my tongue,
Caught the old dangling almanacs behind,
And up they flew like banners in the wind;
Then gently, singly, down, down, down they
went,

And told of twenty years that I had spent
Far from my native land. That instant came
A robin on the threshold; though so tame,
At first he looked distrustful, almost shy,
And cast on me his coal-black steadfast eye,
And seemed to say, -past friendship to renew,
"Ah ha! old worn-out soldier, is it you?"

Feelings on feelings mingling, doubling rose;
My heart felt everything but calm repose;

I could not reckon minutes, hours, nor years,
But rose at once, and bursted into tears;
Then, like a fool, confused, sat down again,
And thought upon the past with shame and pain;
I raved at war and all its horrid cost,
And glory's quagmire, where the brave are lost.
On carnage, fire, and plunder long I mused,
And cursed the murdering weapons I had used.

Two shadows then I saw, two voices heard,
One bespoke age, and one a child's appeared.
In stepped my father with convulsive start,
And in an instant clasped me to his heart.
Close by him stood a little blue-eyed maid ;
And stooping to the child, the old man said,
"Come hither, Nancy, kiss me once again;
This is your uncle Charles, come home from
Spain."

The child approached, and with her fingers light
Stroked my old eyes, almost deprived of sight.
But why thus spin my tale, thus tedious be?
Happy old soldier! what's the world to me?

ROBERT BLOOMFIELD.

SOLDIER, REST! THY WARFARE O'ER.
FROM "THE LADY OF THE LAKE."

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,
Fairy strains of music fall,

Every sense in slumber dewing.
Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,
Dream of fighting fields no more;
Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking,
Morn of toil, nor night of waking.

No rude sound shall reach thine ear,
Armor's clang, or war-steed champing,
Trump nor pibroch summon here

Mustering clan, or squadron tramping.
Yet the lark's shrill fife may come

At the daybreak from the fallow,
And the bittern sound his drum,

Booming from the sedgy shallow.
Ruder sounds shall none be near,
Guards nor warders challenge here;

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.
Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done;
Think not of the rising sun,
For, at dawning to assail ye,
Here no bugles sound reveille.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

THE KNIGHT'S TOMB.

WHERE is the grave of Sir Arthur O'Kellyn?
Where may the grave of that good man be?—
By the side of a spring, on the breast of Helvellyn,
Under the twigs of a young birch-tree!
The oak that in summer was sweet to hear,
And rustled its leaves in the fall of the year,
And whistled and roared in the winter alone,
Is gone, and the birch in its stead is grown. -
The knight's bones are dust,
And his good sword rust;-

His soul is with the saints, I trust.

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.

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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
With resolute heart and purpose grim,
Though cold was the dew on his hurrying feet,
And the blind bat's flitting startled him.

DIRGE FOR A SOLDIER.

CLOSE his eyes; his work is done!
What to him is friend or foeman,
Rise of moon or set of sun,
Hand of man or kiss of woman?
Lay him low, lay him low,
In the clover or the snow!
What cares he? he cannot know;
Lay him low!

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.

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And shed no tear, though think you must
With sorrow of the martyred band ;
Not even for him whose hallowed dust
Has made our prairies holy land.

Though by the places where they fell,
The places that are sacred ground,
Death, like a sullen sentinel,

Paces his everlasting round.

Yet when they set their country free,
And gave her traitors fitting doom,
They left their last great enemy,
Baffled, beside an empty tomb.

Not there, but risen, redeemed, they go
Where all the paths are sweet with flowers;
They fought to give us peace, and lo!

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.
Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done;
Think not of the rising sun,
For, at dawning to assail ye,
Here no bugles sound reveille.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

THE KNIGHT'S TOMB.

grave

WHERE is the grave of Sir Arthur O'Kellyn?
Where the
may
of that good man be?—
By the side of a spring, on the breast of Helvellyn,
Under the twigs of a young birch-tree!
The oak that in summer was sweet to hear,
And rustled its leaves in the fall of the year,
And whistled and roared in the winter alone,
Is gone, and the birch in its stead is grown. -
The knight's bones are dust,
And his good sword rust;-
His soul is with the saints, I trust.

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SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.

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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
With resolute heart and purpose grim,
Though cold was the dew on his hurrying feet,
And the blind bat's flitting startled him.

DIRGE FOR A SOLDIER.

CLOSE his eyes; his work is done!
What to him is friend or foeman,
Rise of moon or set of sun,

Hand of man or kiss of woman?

Lay him low, lay him low,
In the clover or the snow!
What cares he? he cannot know;
Lay him low!

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.

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