Soldier, rest.
[From "The Lady of the lake," by Sir W. Scott.]
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;
Armour's clang, or war-steed champing;
Trump nor pibroch summon here,
Mustering clan, or squadron tramping.
Tet 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 tramping.
Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done;
While our slumb'rous spells assail ye,
Dream not, with the rising sun,
Bugles here shall sound reveillie.
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 bugles sound reveillie.