Alas! ev'n your unhallow'd breath May spare the victim, fallen low; But man will ask no truce to death,― No bounds to human woe". 3 This ode was written in Germany, at the close of 1800, before the conclusion of hostilities, THE SOLDIER'S DREAM, OUR bugles sang true-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 overpow'r'd, 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 dreamt it again. Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array, To the home 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, And my wife sobb'd aloud in her fulness of heart. Stay, stay with us-rest, thou art weary and worn :— And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away. |