CAMPBELL.

THE SOLDIER'S DREAM.

OUR bugles sang truce-for the night-cloud had lower'd, And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky; And thousands had sunk on the ground overpower'd, 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 roam'd on a desolate track,
Till Autumn-and sunshine arose on the way

To the house of my fathers, that welcomed me back.

I flew to the pleasant fields, travers'd 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 wine-cup, and fondly I swore
From my home and my weeping friends never to part;
My little ones kiss'd me a thousand times o'er,

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And my wife sobb'd aloud in her fulness of heart.

Stay-stay with us!-rest! thou art weary and worn!"(And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay ;)

But sorrow return'd with the dawning of morn,

And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away!

CAMPBELL.

THE EXILE OF ERIN.

THERE came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin,
The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill;
For his country he sigh'd, when at twilight repairing
To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill.
But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion;
For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean,
Where once, in the fire of his youthful emotion,
He sang the bold anthem of Erin-go-bragh.

"Sad is my fate!" said the heart-broken stranger:
"The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee,
But I have no refuge from famine and danger,—
A home and a country remain not to me.
Never again, in the green sunny bowers

Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet hours ;
Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers,

And strike to the numbers of Erin-go-bragh.

"Erin, my country! though sad and forsaken, In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore;

But, alas in a far foreign land I awaken,

And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more!

Oh cruel fate! wilt thou never replace me

In a mansion of peace, where no perils can chase me?
Never again shall my brothers embrace me!

They died to defend me, or live to deplore!

"Where is my cabin-door, fast by the wild wood?
Sisters and sire! did ye weep for its fall?
Where is the mother that look'd on my childhood?
And where is the bosom-friend, dearer than all ?

Ah! my sad heart! long abandon'd by pleasure!
Why did it dote on a fast-fading treasure?
Tears, like the rain-drop, may fall without measure,
But rapture and beauty they cannot recall.

"Yet all its sad recollections suppressing,

One dying wish my lone bosom can draw : Erin! an exile bequeaths thee his blessing,

Land of my forefathers! Erin-go-bragh!

Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion,
Green be thy fields, sweetest isle of the ocean!
And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion,-
Erin mavournin,-Erin-go-bragh!""

CAMPBELL.

DRINKING SONG OF MUNICH.

SWEET Iser! were thy sunny realm
And flowery gardens mine,

Thy waters I would shade with elm,
To prop the tender vine.

My golden flagons I would fill

With rosy draughts from every hill;

And, under each green spreading bower,

My gay companions should prolong

The feast, the revel, and the song,

To many an idle sportive hour.

Like rivers crimson'd by the beam
Of yonder planet bright,

Our balmy cups should ever stream
Profusion of delight;

No care should touch the mellow heart,
And sad or sober none depart ;

(For wine can triumph over woe ;) And Love and Bacchus, brother powers, Should build in Iser's sunny bowers

A Paradise below?

CAMPBELL.

LOCHIEL'S WARNING.

WIZARD.

LOCHIEL, Lochiel, beware of the day,

When the Lowlands shall meet thee in battle-array !
For a field of the dead rushes red on my sight,
And the clans of Culloden are scatter'd in fight:
They rally, they bleed for their kingdom and crown,-
Woe, woe to the riders that trample them down!
Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain,
And their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to the plain.
But hark! through the fast-flashing lightning of war,
What steed to the desert flies frantic and far?
"Tis thine, O Glenullin! whose bride shall await,
Like a love-lighted watch-fire, all night at the gate.
A steed comes at morning-no rider is there ;
But its bridle is red with the sign of despair.
Weep, Albin! to death and captivity led;
Oh, weep! but thy tears cannot number the dead :
For a merciless sword on Culloden shall wave-
Culloden that reeks with the blood of the brave.

LOCHIEL.

Go, preach to the coward, thou death-telling seer!
Or, if gory Culloden so dreadful appear,
Draw, dotard, around thy old wavering sight,
This mantle, to cover the phantoms of fright.

WIZARD.

Ha! laugh'st thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn?

Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be torn! Say, rush'd the bold eagle exultingly forth,

From his home, in the dark-rolling clouds of the North?