THE SOLDIER'S DREAM. OUR bugles sung truce; for the night-cloud had low'r'd, And the centinel 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, And twice ere the cock-crow I dreamt it again. Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array, Till autumn and sunshine arose on the way To the house of my fathers that welcom'd 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 pledg'd 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, 66 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! Her perfect image nature sees In union with the Graces start, And sweeter by reflection please! In whose creative hand the hues Fresh from yon orient rainbow shine; I bless thee, Promethéan Muse! And call thee brightest of the Nine! Possessing more than vocal power, Persuasive more than poet's tongue, Whose lineage, in a raptur'd hour, From Love, the lord of nature, sprung. Does Hope his high possession meet? But oh! thou pulse of pleasure dear, Slow throbbing-cold—I feel thee part; Lone absence plants a pang severe, Or death inflicts a keener dart. Alluding to the well known tradition respecting the origin of Painting, that it arose from a young Corinthian female tracing the shadow of her lover's profile on the wall, as he lay asleep. |