THE SOLDIER'S DREAM.

OUR bugles sang truce-for the night-cloud had

lower'd,

[sky;

And the sentinel stars set their watch in the 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, By the wolf-scaring fagot 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, Far, far I had roam'd on a desolate track : "Twas Autumn,-and sunshine arose on the way To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back.

I flew to the pleasant fields traversed 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 pledged 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 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.

TO THE RAINBOW.

TRIUMPHAL arch, that fill'st the sky When storms prepare to part,

I ask not proud Philosophy

To teach me what thou art—

Still seem, as to my

childhood's sight,

A midway station given

For happy spirits to alight

Betwixt the earth and heaven.

Can all that Optics teach, unfold
Thy form to please me so,
As when I dreamt of gems and gold
Hid in thy radiant bow?

When Science from Creation's face
Enchantment's veil withdraws,

What lovely visions yield their place
To cold material laws!

And yet, fair bow, no fabling dreams,
But words of the Most High,
Have told why first thy robe of beams
Was woven in the sky.

When o'er the green undeluged earth Heaven's covenant thou didst shine, How came the world's gray fathers forth To watch thy sacred sign!

And when its yellow lustre smiled
O'er mountains yet untrod,
Each mother held aloft her child
To bless the bow of God.

Methinks, thy jubilee to keep,
The first-made anthem rang
On earth deliver'd from the deep,
And the first poet sang.

Nor ever shall the Muse's eye
Unraptured greet thy beam;
Theme of primeval prophecy,

Be still the prophet's theme!

The earth to thee her incense yields,
The lark thy welcome sings,
When glittering in the freshen❜d fields
The snowy mushroom springs.

How glorious is thy girdle, cast
O'er mountain, tower, and town,
Or mirror'd in the ocean vast,
A thousand fathoms down!

As fresh in yon horizon dark,
As young thy beauties seem,
As when the eagle from the ark
First sported in thy beam:

For, faithful to its sacred page,
Heaven still rebuilds thy span,

Nor lets the type grow pale with age

That first spoke peace to man.

1819.