Our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lower’d, And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky; And thousands had sunk on the ground overpower’d; 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 roam’d on a desolate track: ’Twas Autumn, and sunshine arose on the way To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back. I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft In 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 kiss’d me a thousand times o’er, And my wife sobb’d 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 return’d with the dawning of morn, And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away. TRIPLES with EMMA