The Soldier’s dream

…from the quills of the dead white poets

 Thomas Campbell (1777-1844)

 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 faggot that guarded the slain,

At the dead of the night a sweet Vision I saw;

And thrice ere morning I dreamt it again.

Methought from the battle-field’s dreadful array

Far, far I had roam’d 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 I 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 kiss’d me a thousand time o’er,

And my wife sobb’d aloud in her fullness of heart.

‘Stay – stay with us! – rest! – thou are weary and worn!’ -

And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay; -

But sorrow return’d with the dawning of morn,

And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.

About Avadoro Worden

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