REST WARRIOR, REST.
He comes from the wars, from the red field of fight,
He comes thro’ the storm and the darkness of night,
For rest and for refuge now fain to implore,
The warrior bends low at the cottager’s door.
Pale, pale, pale is his cheek; there’s a gash on his brow;
His locks o’er his shoulders distractedly flow
And the fire of his heart shoots by fits from his eye,
Like a languishing lamp that just flashes to die.
Rest Warrior, rest,—Rest Warrior, rest.
Sunk in silence and sleep on the Cottager’s bed,
Oblivion shall visit the war-weary head;
Perchance he may dream, but the vision shall tell
Of his lady love’s bower, and her latest farewell.
Illusion and love chase the battles alarms,
He shall dream that his Mistress lies lock’d in his arms;
He shall feel on his lips the sweet warmth of her kiss:
Ah! Warrior, wake not, such slumber is bliss.
Rest, Warrior, rest—Rest, Warrior, rest
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