XXXI.

SONG.

"Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,

Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking: Dream of battled 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,1 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,

Scotland. That the instrument was once in common use there, is most certain. Cleland numbers an acquaintance with it among the few accomplishments which his satire allows to the Highlanders:

"In nothing they're accounted sharp,
Except in bagpipe or in harp."

1 [MS.-" Noon of hunger, night of waking.
No rude sound shall rouse thine ear."]

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."

XXXII.

She paused-then, blushing, led the lay1
To grace the stranger of the day.
Her mellow notes awhile prolong

The cadence of the flowing song,

Till to her lips in measured frame
The minstrel verse spontaneous came.

SONG CONTINUED.

"Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done, While our slumbrous spells assail ye,*

Dream not, with the rising sun,

Bugles here shall sound reveillé.

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,

1 [MS." She paused-but waked again the lay."] "Slumber sweet our spells shall deal ye,

avail ye,

2 [MS. Let our slumbrous spells beguile ye."]

For at dawning to assail ye,
Here no bugles sound reveillé.”

XXXIII.

The hall was clear'd—the stranger's bed
Was there of mountain heather spread,
Where oft a hundred guests had lain,
And dream'd their forest sports again.1
But vainly did the heath-flower shed
Its moorland fragrance round his head;
Not Ellen's spell had lull'd to rest
The fever of his troubled breast.
In broken dreams the image rose
Of varied perils, pains, and woes:
His steed now flounders in the brake,
Now sinks his barge upon the lake;
Now leader of a broken host,

His standard falls, his honour's lost.

Then, from my couch may heavenly might
Chase that worst phantom of the night!—
Again return'd the scenes of youth,
Of confident undoubting truth;

Again his soul he interchanged

With friends whose hearts were long estranged.

They come, in dim procession led,

The cold, the faithless, and the dead;

As warm each hand, each brow as gay,

As if they parted yesterday.

[MS." And dream'd their mountain chase again."]

And doubt distracts him at the view,
O were his senses false or true!
Dream'd he of death, or broken vow,
Or is it all a vision now!1

XXXIV.

At length, with Ellen in a grove
He seem'd to walk, and speak of love;
She listen'd with a blush and sigh,
His suit was warm, his hopes were high.
He sought her yielded hand to clasp,
And a cold gauntlet met his grasp:

The phantom's sex was changed and gone,
Upon its head a helmet shone;

Slowly enlarged to giant size,

With darkened cheek and threatening eyes,

1["Ye guardian spirits, to whom man is dear,

From these foul demons shield the midnight gloom: Angels of fancy and of love, be near,

And o'er the blank of sleep diffuse a bloom: Evoke the sacred shades of Greece and Rome,

And let them virtue with a look impart; But chief, awhile, O! lend us from the tomb

Those long-lost friends for whom in love we smart, And fill with pious awe and joy-mixt woe the heart.

"Or are you sportive?-bid the morn of youth

Rise to new light, and beam afresh the days Of innocence, simplicity, and truth;

To cares estranged, and manhood's thorny ways. What transport, to retrace our boyish plays,

Our easy bliss, when each thing joy supplied; The woods, the mountains, and the warbling maze Of the wild brooks!"-Castle of Indolence, Canto 1.]

The grisly visage, stern and hoar,
To Ellen still a likeness bore.-
He woke, and, panting with affright,
Recall'd the vision of the night.1
The hearth's decaying brands were red,
And deep and dusky lustre shed,
Half showing, half concealing, all

The uncouth trophies of the hall.
Mid those the stranger fix'd his eye,
Where that huge falchion hung on high,
And thoughts on thoughts, a countless throng,
Rush'd, chasing countless thoughts along,
Until, the giddy whirl to cure,

He rose, and sought the moonshine pure.

XXXV.

The wild-rose, eglantine, and broom,
Wasted around their rich perfume: 2

1 ["Such a strange and romantic dream as may be naturally expected to flow from the extraordinary events of the past day. It might, perhaps, be quoted as one of Mr. Scott's most successful efforts in descriptive poetry. Some few lines of it are indeed unrivalled from delicacy and melancholy tenderness."-Critical Review.]

2 [MS." Play'd on

{

the bosom of the lake,

Loch Katrine's still expanse;
The birch, the wild-rose, and the broom,
Wasted around their rich perfume......
The birch-trees wept in balmy dew;

The aspen slept on Benvenue;

Wild were the heart whose passions' power
Defied the influence of the hour."]