The Soldier's Dream

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 the 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 wayTo the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back.

I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oftIn 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 fulness 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.

Coleridge's Text.