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,
Armor’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,
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.’
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