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HOHENLINDEN.

On Linden when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay the 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 arrayed,
Each horseman drew his battle blade,
And furious every charger neighed

To join the dreadful revelry.

Then shook the hills, with thunder riven : Then rushed the steed, to battle driven ; And louder than the bolts of Heaven

Far flashed the red artillery.

But redder yet that light shall glow
On Linden's hills of stainèd snow,
And bloodier yet the torrent flow

Of Iser rolling rapidly.

'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun 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.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

THE SOLDIER'S DREAM.

Our bugles sang truce--for the night-cloud had

lowered And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky; And thousands had sunk on the ground over

powered, 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,

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.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

MOTHER AND POET.

(Turin. After news from Gaeta, 1861.)

DEAD! one of them shot by the sea in the east,

And one of them shot in the west by the sea. Dead ! both my boys! When you sit at the feast And are wanting a great song for Italy free,

Let none look at me!

Yet I was a poetess only last year,

And good at my art, for a woman, men said. But this woman, this, who is agonized here, The east sea and west sea rhyme on in her head

Forever instead.

What art can a woman be good at? Oh vain !

What art is she good at, but hurting her breast With the milk-teeth of babes, and a smile at the

pain?

Ah, boys, how you hurt ! you were strong as you

pressed,
And I proud, by that test.

What art's for a woman ? to hold on her knees Both darlings ! to feel all their arms round her

throat Cling, strangle a little ! to sew by degrees, And 'broider the long clothes and neat little coat

To dream and to dote.

To teach them ... It stings there. I made them

indeed Speak plain the word “ country.” I taught them,

no doubt, That a country's a thing men should die for at

need. I prated of liberty, rights, and about

The tyrant turned out.

And when their eyes flashed... O my beautiful

eyes !

I exulted ! nay, let them go forth at the wheels Of the guns, and denied not. But then the sur

prise, When one sits quite alone! Then one weeps,

then one kneels!
-God! how the house feels!

At first happy news came, in gay letters moiled

With my kisses, of camp-life and glory and how They both loved me, and soon, coming home to be

spoiled, In return would fan off every fly from my brow

With their green-laurel bough.

Then was triumph at Turin. “ Ancona was free !"

And some one came out of the cheers in the

street, With a face pale as stone, to say something to me. - My Guido was dead !--I fell down at his feet, While they cheered in the street.

I bore it-friends soothed me: my grief looked

sublime As the ransom of Italy. One boy remained To be leant on and walked with, recalling the

time When the first grew immortal, while both of us

strained
To the height he had gained.

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