Thomas Campbell, 'The Soldier's Dream'

[duathir.livejournal.com]

The Soldier's Dream

Our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lower'd,
And the sentinal stars set their watch in the sky;
And thousands had sunk to 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 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 battlefield's deadly array
Far, far I had roam'd on a desolate track:
T'was 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 kiss'd me a thousand times o'er,
And my wife sobb'd aloud in her fullness of heart.

"Stay-stay with us!-rest!-thou art 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.

By Thomas Campbell

My Aunt’s Spectre, by Mortimer Collins

[elenbarathi.livejournal.com]

My Aunt’s Spectre

THEY tell me (but I really can’t
Imagine such a rum thing),
It is the phantom of my Aunt,
Who ran away—or something.

It is the very worst of bores:
(My Aunt was most delightful).
It prowls about the corridors,
And utters noises frightful.

At midnight through the rooms It glides,
Behaving very coolly,
Our hearts all throb against our sides—
The lights are burning bluely.

The lady, in her living hours,
Was the most charming vixen
That ever this poor sex of ours
Delighted to play tricks on.

Yes, that’s her portrait on the wall,
In quaint old-fashioned bodice:
Her eyes are blue—her waist is small—
A ghost! Pooh, pooh,—a goddess!

A fine patrician shape, to suit
My dear old father’s sister—
Lips softly curved, a dainty foot;
Happy the man that kissed her!

Light hair of crisp irregular curl
Over fair shoulders scattered—
Egad, she was a pretty girl,
Unless Sir Thomas flattered!

And who the deuce, in these bright days,
Could possibly expect her
To take to dissipated ways,
And plague us as a spectre?

By Mortimer Collins