THE RED-BREAST CHASING THE BUTTERFLY. 25
And in the sultry summer hours
I shelter'd you with leaves and flowers;
And in my leaves, now shed and gone,
The linnet lodged, and for us two
Chanted his pretty songs, when you
Had little voice, or none.'
What more he said I cannot tell.
The stream came thundering down the dell,
And gallop'd loud and fast;
I listen'd, nor aught else could hear :
The brier quaked, and much I fear
Those accents were his last.
REDBREAST CHASING THE BUTTERFLY..
ART thou the bird whom man loves best,
The pious bird with the scarlet breast,
Our little English robin?
The bird that comes about our doors
When autumn winds are sobbing?
Art thou the Peter of Norway boors?
Their Thomas in Finland,
And Russia far inland?
The bird, that by some name or other,
All men who know thee call their brother:
The darling of children and men?
Could father Adam open his eyes,
And see this sight beneath the skies,
He'd wish to close them again.
If the butterfly knew but his friend,
Hither his flight he would bend;
And find his way to me,
Under the branches of the tree.
In and out, he darts about;
Can this be the bird to man so good,
That after their bewildering,
Covered with leaves the little children,
So painfully in the wood?
What ailed thee, robin, that thou couldst pursue
A beautiful creature,
That is gentle by nature
Beneath the summer sky?
From flower to flower let him fly;
"Tis all that he wishes to do.
The cheerer, thou, of our indoor sadness,
He is the friend of our summer gladness:
What hinders, then, that ye should be
Playmates in the sunny weather,
And fly about in the air together?
His beautiful wings in crimson are dressed,
A crimson as bright as thine own:
Wouldst thou be happy in thy nest,
Oh, pious bird! whom man loves best,
Love him, or leave him alone!
THE BATTLE OF HOHENLINDEN.
ON Linden, when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay th' 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 rush'd 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
Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun
Where furious Frank and fiery Hun
Shout in their sulph'rous 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 ! 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,
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 roamed 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 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.
Campbell.
No stir in the air, no stir in the sea,
The ship was still as ship might be:
Her sails from heaven received no motion,
Her keel was steady in the ocean.
Without either sign or sound of their shock,
The waves flow'd over the Inchcape rock;
So little they rose, so little they fell,
They did not move the Inchcape Bell.
The worthy abbot of Aberbrothock,
Had placed that bell on the Inchcape rock;
On the waves of the storm it floated and swung,
And louder and louder it warning rung.
When the rock was hid by the tempest's swell,
The mariners heard the warning bell;
And then they knew the perilous rock,
And bless'd the priest of Aberbrothock.
The float of the Inchcape Bell was seen,
A darker speck on the ocean green:
Sir Ralph the Rover walk'd his deck,
And he fix'd his eye on the darker speck.
His eye was on the bell and float:
Quoth he, 'My men, put out the boat,
And row me to the Inchcape rock,
And I'll plague the priest of Aberbrothock.'
The boat is lower'd, the boatmen row,
And to the Inchcape rock they go:
Sir Ralph bent over from the boat,
And cut the warning bell from the float.
Down sank the bell with a gurgling sound,
The bubbles arose, and burst around;
Quoth Sir Ralph, 'The next who comes to this rock, Will not bless the priest of Aberbrothock.'
Sir Ralph the Rover sail'd away,
He scour'd the seas for many a day;
And now grown rich with plunder'd store,
He steers his course to Scotland's shore.
So thick a haze o'erspreads the sky,
They cannot see the sun on high:
The wind had blown a gale all day,
At evening it had died away.
'Canst hear,' said one, 'the breakers roar?
For yonder, methinks, should be the shore;
Now where we are I cannot tell,
But I wish we could hear the Inchcape bell!'
They hear no sound, the swell is strong,
Though the wind hath fallen they drift along,
Till the vessel strikes with a shiv'ring shock-
They cried, 'It is the Inchcape rock!'
Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair,
He curs'd himself in his despair;
But the waves rush in on every side,
And the vessel sinks beneath the tide.
A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA.
A WET sheet, and a flowing sea,
A wind that follows fast,
And fills the white and rustling sail,
And bends the gallant mast;
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