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To see thee, on the battle's eve,
"To-morrow let us do or die!
"Or shall we cross yon mountains blue,
"But hark, the trump!—to-morrow thou
THE SOLDIER'S DREAM.
Our bugles sang truce—for the night-cloud had lowered
And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered,
When reposing that night on my pallet of straw,
By the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain -T At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,
And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again.
Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track;
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 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
EXILE OF ERIN.
There came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin,
To wander alone by the wind beaten hill.
Sad is my fate! said the heart-broken stranger,
But I have no refuge from famine and danger,
Never again in the green sunny bowers,
Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet hours,.
Or cover my harp with the wild woven flowers,
Erin my country! though sad and forsaken,
But alas! in a fiwr foreign land I awaken, A f
And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more!
Oh cruel fate! will thou never replace me
In a mansion of peace—where no perils can chase me?
Never again, shall my brothers embrace me?
Where is my cabin-door, fast by the wild wood?
Sisters and sire! did ye weep for its fall?
And where is the bosom friend, dearer than all?
But rapture and beauty they cannot recall.
Yet all its sad recollection suppressing,
Erin! an exile bequeaths thee his blessing!
Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion,
Green be thy fields—sweetest isle of the ocean"!"
And thy harp striking bards sing aloud with devotion-
LINES WRITTEN ON VISITING A SCENE IN ARGYLBBH1RE.
At the silence of twilight's contemplative hour,
I have mused in a sorrowful mood,
Where the home of my forefathers stood.
And lonely the dark raven's sheltering tree;
To his hills that encircle the sea,
Yet wandering, I found on my ruinous walk,
By the dial-stone aged and green,
To mark where a garden had been.
All wild in the silence of Nature, it drew,
Where the flower of my forefathers grew.
Sweet bud of the wilderness! emblem of all
That remains in this desolate heart!
But patience shall never depart!
In the days of delusion by fancy combined,
And leave but a desert behind.
Be hushed, my dark spirit! for wisdom condemns
When the faint and the feeble deplore;
A thousand wild waves on the shore!
May thy front be unaltered, thy courage elate! Yea! even the name I have worshipped in vain Shall awake not the sigh of remembrance again;
To bear is to conquer our fate.
Ye field flowers! the gardens eclipse you, 't is true,
For ye waft me to summers of old,
Like treasures of silver and gold.
I love you for luffing' me back into dreams
Of the blue Highland mountains and echoing streams,
And of broken glades breathing their balm, While the deer was seen glancing in sunshine remote, And the deep mellow crush of the wood pigeon's note
Made music that sweeten'd the calm.
Not a pastoral song has a pleasanter tune
Than ye speak to my heart, little wildings of June:
Of old ruinous castles ye tell, Where I thought it delightful your beauties to find, When the magic of Nature first breathed on my mind,
And'your blossoms were part of her spell.
Even now what affections the violet awakes;
Can the wild water lily restore;
In the vetches that tangled their shore.
Earth's cultureless buds, to my heart ye were dear,
Had scathed my existence's bloom;
And I wish you to grow on my tomb.
Crabbe Is a powerful writer, but destitute of elegance or sweetness. He describes with great strength and truth the workings of the morbid passions, and the external appearances of nature and of human society, as it existed in his own "borough." His poetry is like a painting, of which the scene id exceedingly gloomy, and the colours coarsely and roughly applied; but in which every object is expressive, and protrudes strongly from the canvass. The moral lessons to be derived from his poems are very salutary.
THE WINTER STORM AT SEA.
View now the winter-storm! above, one cloud,
All where the eye delights, yet dreads to roam,
Far off the petril in the troubled way
High o'er the restless deep, above the reach