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.

prise,

When one sits quite alone!

then one kneels!

But then the sur

-God! how the house feels!

Then one weeps,

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.