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In this and some following Lessons, the principles applicable to the reading of poetry are illustrated.

1. IN slumbers of midnight || the Sailor-boy lay,

His hammock | swung loose || at the sport of the wind;
But watch-worn | and weary, || his cares | flew away,
And visions of happiness || danc'd o'er his mind.

2. He dream'd of his home, || of his dear native bowers,
And pleasures that waited || on life's merry morn,
While Memory each scene || gayly cover'd with flowers,
And restor❜d every rose, || but secreted the thorn.

3. Then Fancy her magical pinions || spread wide,

And bade the young dreamer || in ecstasy rise;
Now, far, far behind him || the green waters glide,
And the cot of his forefathers | blesses his eyes.

4. The jessamine clambers || in flower o'er the thatch,
And the swallow sings sweet || from her nest in the wall;
All trembling with transport || he raises the latch,
And the voices of lov'd ones || reply to his call.

5. A father bends o'er him || with looks of delight;
His cheek is impearl'd || with a mother's warm tear;
And the lips of the boy || in a love-kiss unite

With the lips of the maid || whom his bosom holds dear.

6. The heart of the sleeper || beats high in his breast,

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Joy quickens his pulse, || all his hardships seem o'er;
And a murmur of happiness || steals through his rest-
"O God! thou hast blest me, || I ask for no more.

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7. Ah! whence is that flame || which now bursts on his eye? Ah! what is that sound || that now larums his ear? 'Tis the lightening's red glare || painting hell on the sky! 'Tis the crashing of thunders, || the groan of the sphere!

8. He springs from his hammock, || he flies to the deck;
Amazement confronts him || with images dire;
Wild winds and mad waves || drive the vessel a wreck,

The masts fly in splinters, || the shrouds are on fire!

9. Like mountains the billows || tumultuously swell,
In vain the lost wretch || calls on mercy to save;
Unseen hands of spirits || are ringing his knell ́,
And the death-angel flaps || his broad wings o'er the wave.
10. Oh, Sailor-boy! || woe to thy dream of delight!

In darkness || dissolves the gay frost-work of bliss;
Where now is the picture || that Fancy touch'd bright;
Thy parents' fond pressure, || and love's honey'd kiss?

11. Oh, Sailor-boy! Sailor-boy"! || never again

Shall home, love, or kindred, || thy wishes repay;
Unbless'd and unhonor'd, || down deep in the main,
Full many a score fathom, || thy frame shall decay.
12. No tomb shall e'er plead || to remembrance for thee,
Or redeem form or fame || from the merciless surge;
But the white foam of waves || shall thy winding-sheet be,
And winds, in the midnight || of winter, thy dirge.

13. On beds of green sea-flower || thy limbs shall be laid;
Around thy white bones || the red coral shall grow;
Of thy fair, yellow locks, || threads of amber be made,
And every part suit || to thy mansion below.

14. Days, months, years ́, and ages`, || shall circle away,
And still the vast waters || above thee shall roll;
Earth loses thy pattern || forever and aye;

Oh Sailor-boy! Sailor-boy! || peace to thy soul.

XXXVI. — THE SOLDIER'S REST.

FROM WALTER SCOTT.

SIR WALTER SCOTT was born at Edinburgh, in 1771. After his admission to the Scottish bar, he determined to devote himself to literary pursuits, and his path to fame was opened by the Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border. After the publication of some other poems, he chose a new department of literature, and, concealing his name, commenced the series called the Waverly Novels. He also produced several historical works. He died at Abbotsford, in 1832.

Pibroch; an instrument of music used in Scotland.

Reveille, (pro. re-vel-ya); signal for mustering.

1. 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 ́,

Sleep the sleep || that knows not breaking; Dream of battle-fields || no more,

Morn of toil, || nor night of waking`.

2. No rude sound shall reach thine ear",
Armor'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 warders challenge here
Here's no war-steed's neigh and champing",
Shouting clans or squadrons stamping.

3. Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done`;
While our slumb'rous spells assail ́ye,
Dream not with the rising sun ́,
Bugles here shall sound reveille`.

Sleep! the deer is in his den;

Sleep! thy hounds are by thee lying;
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 assail ye,
Here no bugle sounds reveille.

XXXVII.

BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.

BY CHARLES WOLFE.

REV. CHARLES WOLFE was a clergyman of the Church of England, who died in early life, leaving but few specimens of his poetic talent. Byron said of this ballad, that he would rather be the author of it than of any one ever written.

1. Nor a drum | was heard, | not a funeral note,
As his corse to the rampart we hurried;
Not a soldier | discharg'd || his farewell | shot
O'er the grave | where our hero was buried.

2. We buried him | darkly, || at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets | turning;
By the struggling moonbeam's || misty light,
And the lanterns || dimly burning.

3. No useless coffin || enclos'd | his breast,

Not in sheet | nor in shroud || we wound him;
But he lay like a warrior || taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him.

4. Few and short || were the prayers we said,
And we spoke || not a word of sorrow;

And we steadfastly gaz'd || on the face of the dead,
And we bitterly thought || of the morrow.

5. We thought, || as we hollow'd his narrow bed, And smooth'd down || his lonely pillow,

That the foe
And we

and the stranger || would tread || o'er his head, far away || on the billow.

6. Lightly they'll talk || of the spirit | that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes || upbraid` him,

But little he'll reck, || if they'll let him sleep on
In the grave | where a Briton has laid him.

7. But half | of our heavy task || was done,

When the clock || struck the hour for retiring;
And we heard || the distant random gun
Which the foe || was sullenly firing.

8. Slowly and sadly || we laid him down,

From the field of his fame || fresh and gory;
We carv'd not a line, || and we raised not a stone;
But left him || alone with his glory.

XXXVIII.

MARY, THE MAID OF THE INN.

FROM SOUTHEY.

1. WHERE is she, the poor maniac, whose wildly-fix'd eyes Seem a heart overcharg'd to express ?

She weeps not, yet often and deeply she sighs;
She never complains; but her silence implies
The composure of settled distress.

2. No aid, no compassion, the maniac will seek; Cold and hunger awake not her care;

Through the rags do the winds of the winter blow bleak On her poor wither'd bosom, half bare; and her cheek Has the deadly pale hue of despair.

3. Yet cheerful and happy`, nor distant the day,
Poor Mary, the maniac, has been`:

The traveler remembers, who journey'd this way,
No damsel so lovely`, no damsel so gay`,
As Mary, the Maid of the Inn.

4. Her cheerful address fill'd the guests with delight,
As she welcom'd them in with a smile;

Her heart was a stranger to childish affright,
And Mary would walk by the Abbey at night,

When the wind whistl'd down the dark aisle.

5. She lov'd; and young Richard had settl'd the day`;
And she hop'd to be happy for life:

But Richard was idle and worthless; and they,
Who knew him, would pity poor Mary', and say,
That she was too good for his wife.

6. 'Twas in Autumn`, and stormy and dark was the night, And fast were the windows and door;

Two guests sat enjoying the fire that burn'd bright;
And, smoking in silence, with tranquil delight,
They listen'd to hear the wind roar.

7. "Tis pleasant," cried one, "seated by the fireside, To hear the wind whistle without."

"A fine night for the Abbey!" his comrade replied: "Methinks a man's courage would now well be tried, Who would wander the ruins about.

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