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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 só 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,

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

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(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!

LINES TO A SLEEPING INFANT.

ANONYMOUS.

Art thou a thing of mortal birth,
Whose happy home is on the earth?
Does human blood with life imbue
Those wandering veins of heavenly blue,
That stray along thy forehead fair,
Lost 'mid a gleam of golden hair?
Oh! can that light and airy breath
Steal from a being doom'd to death ?

Those features to the grave be sent,
In sleep thus mutely eloquent?
Or art thou, what thy form would seem,
The phantom of a blessed dream ?
Oh! that my spirit's eye could see
Whence burst those gleams of ecstasy!
That light of dreaming soul appears
To play from thoughts above thy years.
Thou smil'st as if thy soul were soaring
To heaven, and heaven's God adoring!
And who can tell what visions high
May bless an infant's sleeping eye?
What brighter throne can brightness find
To reign on than an infant's mind,
Ere sin destroy, or error dim
The glory of the Seraphim!

SONG.

CAREW.

Ask me no more where Jove bestows,
When June is past, the fading rose;
For in your beauty's orient deep
These flow'rs, as in their causes, sleep.

Ask me no more whither do stray
The golden atoms of the day;
For, in pure love, Heaven did prepare
Those powders to enrich your hair.

Ask me no more whither doth haste
The nightingale when May is past;
For in your sweet dividing throat
She winters, and keeps warm her note.

Ask me no more where those stars light
That downwards fall in dead of night;
For in your eyes they sit, and there
Fixed become as in their sphere.

Ask me no more if east or west
The Phoenix builds her spicy nest;
For unto you at last she flies,
And in your fragrant bosom dies.

HOHENLINDEN.

CAMPBELL
On Linden, when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow;
And dark as winter was the flow

Of Iser rolling rapidly.
But Linden saw another sight,
When the drum beat at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light

The darkness of her scenery.

By torch and trumpet fast array'd,
Each horseman drew his battle blade,
And furious every charger neigh'd

To join the dreadful revelry.

Then shook the hills with thunder riven; Then flew the steed, to battle driven ; And louder than the bolts of heaven,

Far flash'd the red artillery,

But redder yet that light shall glow
On Linden's hills of stained snow;

And bloodier yet the torrent flow

Of Iser rolling rapidly.

'Tis morn; but scarce yon level sun Can pierce the war-clouds rolling dun, Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun

Shout in their sulphurous canopy.

The combat deepens,—On, ye brave,
Who rush to glory or the grave !
Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave,

And charge with all thy chivalry!

Few, few shall part, where many meet ! The snow shall be their winding-sheet, And every turf beneath their feet

Shall be a soldier's sepulchre !

LINES ADDRESSED TO A LADY.

Written after a Batile.

ANONYMOUS

Oh, Lady! breathe no sigh for those,

And let no tear be shed,

Who rest in battle-field their head,
And sleep, amid their country's foes,

The slumbers of the dead.
Thy pearly tears may stream around

Thy lov'd one's aching pillow,
Or weep some darling soul who found

A grave beneath the billow ;
Or, like a widow'd matron, twine
The cypress and the jessamine,

And strew the lily in its bloom
Round the cold precincts of the tomb,
Where one is laid you fondly press'd
A youthful bridegroom to your breast.
Tho' lovely were the wreath you wove,

As fairy hands could twine,
And heart forlorn ne'er gave to love

A sigh more pure than thine;
Yet, Lady, weave no wreath for those,

And let no tear be shed,

Who rest in battle-field their head,
And sleep, amid their country's foes,

The slumbers of the dead.
For, oh! the Warrior's fate may claim
A brighter meed, a higher fame :
He in the fields of glory fell,
And thund'ring cannon rung his knell.
For him there is a holier sigh
In every wind that passes by;
And Heav'n more precious tears shall shed
Round the unburied soldier's head.
But oft at morn, and evening dim,
O breathe a silent prayer for him ;
And do thou to his soul impart
The warmest blessings of thy heart !

MY NATIVE HOME.

MRS ROBINSON.
O'ER breezy hill or woodland glade,

At morning's dawn or closing day,
In Summer's flaunting pomp array'd,

Or pensive moonlight's silver grey, The wretch in sadness still shall roam, Who wanders from his native home.

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