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TO HIS MOTHER.
My mother! when I learned that thou wast dead,
Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more, Children not thine have trod my nursery floor ; And where the gardener, Robin, day by day, Drew me to school along the public way, Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapped In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capped, 'Tis now become a history little known, That once we called the pastoral house our own. Short-lived possession! but the record fair That memory keeps of all thy kindness there,
Still outlives many a storm that has effaced
That thou might'st know me safe and warmly laid;
The biscuit or confectionery plum;
The fragrant waters on my
By thy own hands, till fresh they shone and glowed.
All this, and, more endearing still than all,
Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay
Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere,
Not scorned in Heaven, though little noticed here.
THE SOLDIER'S DREAM.
OUR bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lowered,
And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky; And thousands had sunk on the ground over
The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.
When reposing that night on my pallet of straw, By the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain, At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,
And thrice ere the morning I dreamed it again.
Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track; 'Twas autumn-and sunshine arose on my way To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back.
I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft
I heard my own mountain-goat bleating aloft,
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 fulness of heart.
Stay, stay with us,—rest,—thou art weary and worn;
And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay; But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn, And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away. CAMPBELL.
THE boy stood on the burning deck,
A proud, though child-like form.
The flames rolled on ;-he would not go
He knew not that the chieftain lay
"Speak, father!" once again he cried,
And looked from that lone post of death, In still, yet brave despair.
And shouted but once more aloud,
While o'er him fast, thro' sail and shroud,
There came a burst of thunder sound ;-
CŒUR DE LION AT THE BIER OF HIS FATHER.
TORCHES were blazing clear,
Hymns pealing deep and slow,
Where a king lay stately on his bier
Banners of battle o'er him hung,
And warriors slept beneath,
And light, as noon's broad light, was flung