Milder yet thy snowy breezes

Pour on yonder tented shores,

Where the Rhine's broad billow freezes,
Or the dark-brown Danube roars.

Oh winds of winter! list ye there

To many a deep and dying groan;

Or start, ye demons of the midnight air,

At shrieks and thunders louder than your own.

Alas! ev'n your unhallow'd breath

May spare the victim, fallen low;

But man will ask no truce to death,—
No bounds to human woe. 3

3 This ode was written in Germany, at the close of 1800, before the conclusion of hostilities.

THE SOLDIER'S DREAM.

OUR bugles sang truce-for the night-cloud had low'r'd,

And the centinel stars set their watch in the sky; And thousands had sunk on the ground overpow'r'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 welcom'd 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 pledg'd 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, wife sobb'd aloud in her fulness of heart.

And

my

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.

THE TURKISH LADY.

'Twas the hour when rites unholy Call'd each Paynim voice to pray'r,

And the star that faded slowly

Left to dews the freshen'd air.

Day her sultry fires had wasted,

Calm and sweet the moonlight rose:

Ev'n a captive spirit tasted

Half oblivion of his woes.

Then 'twas from an Emir's palace
Came an eastern lady bright:
She, in spite of tyrants jealous,

Saw and lov'd an English knight.

Tell me, captive, why in anguish 'Foes have dragg'd thee here to dwell, Where poor Christians as they languish • Hear no sound of sabbath bell ?'

'Twas on Transylvania's Bannat
• When the crescent shone afar,

'Like a pale disastrous planet
'O'er the purple tide of war.