"Soldier, Rest! thy Warfare O'er "

If thou regrett'st thy youth, why live?

The land of honourable death

Is here:-up to the field, and give
Away thy breath!

Seek out-less often sought than found-
A soldier's grave, for thee the best;

Then look around, and choose thy ground,
And take thy rest.

1824.

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Lord Byron.

"SOLDIER, REST! THY WARFARE

O'ER"

From The Lady of the Lake

SOLDIER, rest! thy warfare o'er,

Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking;

Dream of battled fields no more,

Days of danger, nights of waking.

In our isle's enchanted hall,

Hands unseen thy couch are strewing,

Fairy strains of music fall,

Every sense in slumber dewing.

Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,

Dream of fighting fields no more;
Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking,
Morn of toil, nor night of waking.

No rude sound shall reach thine ear,
Armor's clang, or war-steed champing,

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Trump nor pibroch summon here

Mustering clan or squadron tramping.
Yet the lark's shrill fife may come
At the daybreak from the fallow,
And the bittern sound his drum,
Booming from the sedgy shallow.
Ruder sounds shall none be near,
Guards nor warders challenge here,

Here's no war-steed's neigh and champing,
Shouting clans or squadrons stamping.

Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done,

While our slumberous spells assail ye, Dream not, with the rising sun,

Bugles here shall sound reveillé.
Sleep! the deer is in his den;

Sleep! thy hounds are by thee lying:
Sleep! nor dream in yonder glen
How thy gallant steed lay dying.
Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done;
Think not of the rising sun,
For at dawning to assail ye

Here no bugles sound reveillé.

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1810.

Sir Walter Scott.

MELANCHOLY

From The Nice Valour

HENCE, all you vain delights,
As short as are the nights

Wherein you spend your folly!

1647.

The Bridge

There's naught in this life sweet,
If men were wise to see 't,
But only melancholy-

O sweetest melancholy!

Welcome, folded arms and fixèd eyes,
A sight that piercing mortifies,

A look that 's fasten'd to the ground,
A tongue chain'd up without a sound!

Fountain-heads and pathless groves,
Places which pale passion loves!
Moonlight walks, when all the fowls
Are warmly housed, save bats and owls!
A midnight bell, a parting groan-
These are the sounds we feed upon:
Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy
valley,

Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely

melancholy.

I I

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John Fletcher.

THE BRIDGE

I STOOD On the bridge at midnight,
As the clocks were striking the hour,
And the moon rose o'er the city,
Behind the dark church-tower.

I saw her bright reflection
In the waters under me,

Like a golden goblet falling
And sinking into the sea.

And far in the hazy distance
Of that lovely night in June,
The blaze of the flaming furnace
Gleamed redder than the moon.

Among the long, black rafters

The wavering shadows lay,

And the current that came from the ocean Seemed to lift and bear them away;

As, sweeping and eddying through them,

Rose the belated tide,

And, streaming into the moonlight,

The seaweed floated wide.

And like those waters rushing

Among the wooden piers,

A flood of thoughts came o'er me
That filled my eyes with tears.

How often, O how often,

In the days that had gone by,

I had stood on that bridge at midnight
And gazed on that wave and sky!

How often, O how often,

I had wished that the ebbing tide Would bear me away on its bosom

O'er the ocean wild and wide!

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The Bridge

For my heart was hot and restless,
And my life was full of care,
And the burden laid upon me
Seemed greater than I could bear.

But now it has fallen from me,
It is buried in the sea;

And only the sorrow of others
Throws its shadow over me.

Yet whenever I cross the river

On its bridge with wooden piers, Like the odor of brine from the ocean Comes the thought of other years.

And I think of how many thousands
Of care-encumbered men,

Each bearing his burden of sorrow,
Have crossed the bridge since then.

I see the long procession

Still passing to and fro,

The young heart hot and restless,

And the old subdued and slow!

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And forever and forever,

As long as the river flows,

As long as the heart has passions,
As long as life has woes;

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