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 overpowered:
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 winecup, 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.

IT IS NOT BEAUTY I DEMAND.

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.

IT IS NOT BEAUTY I DEMAND.

IT is not beauty I demand:

A crystal brow, the moon's despair ;
Nor the snow's daughter, a white hand;
Nor mermaid's yellow pride of hair.

Tell me not of your starry eyes;
Your lips, that seem on roses fed;
Your breasts, where Cupid tumbling lies,
Nor sleeps for kissing of his bed;

A bloomy pair of vermeil cheeks,

Like Hebe's in her ruddiest hours;

A breath that softer music speaks

Than summer winds a-wooing flowers.

These are but gauds; nay, what are lips?
Corals beneath the ocean-stream,
Whose brink when your adventurer slips,
Full oft he perisheth on them.

IT IS NOT BEAUTY I DEMAND.

And what are cheeks, but ensigns oft,
That wave hot youth to fields of blood?
Did Helen's breast, though ne'er so soft,
Do Greece or Ilium any good?

Eyes can with baleful ardor burn,

Poison can breathe, that erst perfumed; There's many a white hand holds an urn, With lovers' hearts to dust consumed.

For crystal brows, there's naught within:
They are but empty cells for pride;
He who the Siren's hair would win
Is mostly strangled in the tide.

Give me, instead of beauty's bust,
A tender heart, a loyal mind,
Which with temptation I would trust,
Yet never linked with error find;

One in whose gentle bosom I

Could pour my secret heart of woes, Like the care-burdened honey-fly,

That hides his murmurs in the rose;

My earthly comforter! whose love
So indefeasible might be,
That when my spirit won above,

Hers could not stay, for sympathy.

THOMAS CAREW.

WILLIE WINKIE.

WEE Willie Winkie rins through the town,
Up stairs and doon stairs, in his nicht-gown,

Tirlin' at the window, cryin' at the lock,

"Are the weans in their bed?- for it's now ten o'clock."

Hey, Willie Winkie! are ye comin' ben?

The cat's singin' gay thrums to the sleepin' hen,

The doug's speldered on the floor, and disna gie a cheep; But here's a waukrife laddie, that winna fa' asleep.

Onything but sleep, ye rogue!—glow'rin' like the moon,
Rattlin' in an airn jug wi' an airn spoon,

Rumblin', tumblin' roun' about, crawin' like a cock,
Skirlin' like a kenna-what-wauknin' sleepin' folk!

Hey, Willie Winkie! the wean's in a creel!
Wamblin' aff a bodie's knee like a vera eel,
Ruggin' at the cat's lug, and ravelin' a' her thrums:
Hey, Willie Winkie!-See, there he comes!

Wearie is the mither that has a storie wean,

A wee stumpie stoussie, that canna rin his lane,

That has a battle aye wi' sleep, before he'll close an ee; But a kiss frae aff his rosy lips gies strength anew to me.

WILLIAM MILLER.

THE CHESS-BOARD.

My little love, do you remember,
Ere we were grown so sadly wise,
Those evenings in the bleak December,
Curtained warm from the snowy weather,
When you and I played chess together,
Checkmated by each other's eyes?

Ah! still I see your soft white hand Hovering warm o'er Queen and Knight. Brave Pawns in valiant battle stand; The double Castles guard the wings; The Bishop, bent on distant things, Moves, sidling, through the fight.

Our fingers touch; our glances meet, And falter; falls your golden hair Against my cheek; your bosom sweet Is heaving. Down the field, your Queen Rides slow, her soldiery all between, And checks me unaware.

Ah me the little battle's done:

Disperst is all its chivalry.

Full many a move, since then, have we

'Mid life's perplexing checkers made, And many a game with Fortune played: