Volume I Part 38 (2/2)

Where, through groves deep and high, Sounds the far billow; Where early violets die Under the willow.

Eleu loro, &c.

Soft shall be his pillow.

There, through the summer day, Cool streams are laving; There, while the tempests sway, Scarce are boughs waving; There, thy rest shalt thou take, Parted for ever; Never again to wake, Never, O never!

Eleu loro, &c.

Never, O never!

Where shall the traitor rest, He, the deceiver, Who could win maiden's breast, Ruin, and leave her?

In the lost battle, Borne down by the flying, Where mingle war's rattle With groans of the dying.

Eleu loro, &c.

There shall he be lying.

Her wing shall the eagle flap O'er the false-hearted; His warm blood the wolf shall lap Ere life be parted.

Shame and dishonour sit By his grave ever; Blessing shall hallow it,-- Never, O never!

Eleu loro, &c.

Never, O never!

[76] From the third canto of ”Marmion.”

SOLDIER, REST! THY WARFARE O'ER.[77]

Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er, Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking; Dream of battle-fields no more, Days of danger, nights of waking.

In our isle's enchanted hall, Hands unseen thy couch are strewing, Fairy strains of music fall, Every sense in slumber dewing.

Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er, Dream of fighting fields no more; Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking, Morn of toil, nor night of waking.

No rude sound shall reach thine ear, Armour's clang, or war-steed champing; Trump nor pibroch summon here, Mustering clan, or squadron tramping.

Yet the lark's shrill fife may come At the daybreak from the fallow; And the bittern sound his drum, Booming from the sedgy shallow.

Ruder sounds shall none be near, Guards nor wardens challenge here; Here 's no war-steed's neigh and champing, Shouting clans, or squadrons' stamping.

Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done; While our slumbrous spells a.s.sail ye, Dream not, with the rising sun, Bugles here shall sound reveille.

Sleep! the deer is in his den; Sleep! nor dream in yonder glen, How thy gallant steed lay dying.

Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done, Think not of the rising sun, For at dawning to a.s.sail ye, Here no bugles sound reveille.

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