When reposing that night on my pallet of straw, Methought, from the battle-field's dreadful array 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 And my wife sobb'd aloud in her fulness of heart. Stay, stay with us,-rest! thou art weary and worn!". But sorrow return'd with the dawning of morn, OUR bugles sang truce-for the night-cloud had lower'd, |