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, Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array, 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, Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore 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! CAMPBELL. THE EXILE OF ERIN. THERE came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin, "Sad is my fate!" said the heart-broken stranger: Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet hours ; 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? They died to defend me, or live to deplore! "Where is my cabin-door, fast by the wild wood? Ah! my sad heart! long abandon'd by pleasure! "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, CAMPBELL. DRINKING SONG OF MUNICH. SWEET Iser! were thy sunny realm Thy waters I would shade with elm, 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 Our balmy cups should ever stream No care should touch the mellow heart, (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 ! LOCHIEL. Go, preach to the coward, thou death-telling seer! 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? |