Our bugles sang truce—for the night-cloud had lowered,And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky;And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered,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 roamed 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 kissed me a thousand times o'er,And my wife sobbed 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 returned with the dawning of morn,And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.
