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 battle fields || no more, Sleep the sleep || that knows not breaking 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 day-break 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 lying1·
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.

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 | discharged || 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 lantern || dimly burning.

3. No useless coffin' || inclosed | 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 gazed || on the face of the dead,
And we bitterly thought || of the morrow.

5. We thought, || as we hollowed his narrow bed,

And smoothed down || his lonely pillow,

That the foe` | and the stranger` || would tread o'er his head,
And we 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 and 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 carved not a line, || and we raised not a stone;
But we left him || alone with his glory.

XXXVIII.-MARY, THE MAID OF THE INN.

FROM SOUTHEY.

1. WHERE is she, the poor maniac, whose wildly-fixed eyes Seem a heart overcharged 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 withered 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 journeyed this way,
No damsel so lovely', no damsel so gay`,

As Mary, the Maid of the Inn.

4. Her cheerful address filled the guests with delight,
As she welcomed 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 whistled down the dark aisle.

5. She loved', and young Richard had settled the day`;
And she hoped 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 burnt bright
And, smoking in silence, with tranquil delight,
They listened 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 be well tried, Who would wander the ruins about.

8. "I myself', like a school-boy, should tremble to hear
The hoarse ivy shake over my head;

And could fancy I saw, half persuaded by fear,
Some ugly old Abbot's grim spirit` appear;

For this wind might awaken the dead!"

9. "I'll wager a dinner," the other one cried,
"That Mary would venture there now`.”
with a sneer he replied;
"I'll warrant she'd fancy a ghost by her side,
And faint if she saw a white cow!"

"Then wager, and lose':

10. "Will Mary this charge on her courage allow?"
His companion exclaimed with a smile';

"I shall win', for I know she will venture there now,
And earn a new bonnet by bringing a bough
From the alder that grows in the aisle."

11. With fearless good-humor did Mary comply,
And her way to the Abbey she bent;
The night it was gloomy', the wind it was high`;
And, as hollowly howling it swept through the sky,
She shivered with cold as she went.

12. O'er the path so well known, still proceeded the maid,
Where the Abbey rose dim on the sight;

Through the gate-way, she entered, she felt not afraid;
Yet the ruins were lonely and wild, and their shade
Seemed to deepen the gloom of the night.

13. All around her was silent, save when the rude blast
Howled dismally round the old pile;

Over weed-covered fragments still fearless she passed,
And arrived at the innermost ruin at last,

Where the alder-tree grew in the aisle.

14. Well pleased did she reach it, and quickly drew near,
And hastily gathered the bough;

When the sound of a voice seemed to rise on her ear;
She paused, and she listened, all eager to hear,

And her heart panted fearfully now!

15. The wind blew`; the hoarse ivy shook over her head`;
She listened'; naught else could she hear;

The wind ceased'; her heart sunk in her bosom with dread,
For she heard in the ruins-distinctly-the tread

Of footsteps approaching her near.

16. Behind a wide column, half breathless with fear,
She crept, to conceal herself there;

That instant, the moon o'er a dark cloud shone clear,
And she saw in the moonlight two ruffians' appear,
And between them, a corpse they did bear.

17. Then Mary could feel her heart-blood curdle cold,
Again the rough wind hurried by;

It blew off the hat of the one, and, behold,
Even close to the feet of poor Mary it rolled;
She fell; and expected to die!

18. "Stop! the hat!" he exclaims. "Nay', come on, and fast hide
The dead body!" his comrade replies.
She beheld them in safety pass on by her side'; '
She seizes the hat`, fear her courage supplied,
And fast through the Abbey she flies.

19. She ran with wild speed'; she rushed in at the door';
She looked horribly eager around` :

Her limbs could support their faint burden no more;
But exhausted and breathless, she sank on the floor,
Unable to utter a sound.

20. Ere yet her pale lips could her story impart, For a moment, the hat met her view:

Her eyes from that object convulsively start,

For, O Heaven! what cold horror thrilled through her heart,
When the name of her Richard she knew!

21. Where the old Abbey stands, on the common hard by',
His gibbet is now to be seen;

Not far from the inn, it engages the eye';
The traveler beholds it, and thinks with a sigh',
Of poor Mary, the Maid of the Inn.

XXXIX.-JEPHTHAH'S DAUGHTER.

FROM N. P. WILLIS.

FOR the scene which this describes, see the eleventh chapter of the Book of Judges, from the 29th verse through.

1. SHE stood before her father's gorgeous tent,

To listen for his coming.