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While Geraldine, in wretched plight,
'O weary Lady Geraldine,
'And will your mother pity one,
Christabel answered, 'Woe is me!
Then Christabel knelt by the lady's side,
Coleridge. THE DYING SOLDIER.
The day-light is fading: the cloud-broken ray
Of the dim setting sun is fast melting away;
And the red hand of war, of its mail glove made light,
From the wet weary brow wipes the cold dews of night.
The cries of the wounded are hushed to repose
Of that sleep that no vision or change ever knows.
Can I think that my hour of existence is near,
A. B. P.
Many years ago, a poor Highland Soldier, on his return to his native hills, fatigued, as it was supposed, by the length of the march and the heat of the weather, sat down under the shade of a birch tree on the solitary road of Low ran, that winds along the margin of Lbchken in Galloway. Here he was found dead, and this incident forms the subject of the following verses.
From the climes of the sun, all war-worn and weary,
Fair visions of home cheered the desert so dreary,
Though fierce was the noon-beam, and steep was the . road.
Till, spent with the march that still lengthened before him, He stopped by the way in a sylvan retreat;
The light shady boughs of the birch-tree waved o'er him,
He sunk to repose where the red heaths are blended,
But his battles are fought, and his march now is ended,
No arm in the day of the conflict could wound him,
Now the angel of death in the desert has found him,
Pale autumn spreads o'er him the leaves of the forest,
And thou, little brook, still the sleeper deplorest,
And moistenest the heath-bell that weeps on his breast.
Rev. W. Gillespie.
THE LAKE OF THE DISMAL SWAMP.
AN AMERICAN BALLAD.
A young man lost his mind upon the death of the girl he loved, and who suddenly disappearing from his friends, was never afterwards heard of. As he had frequently said in his ravings that the girl was not dead, but gone to the Dismal Swamp, it is supposed he had wandered into that dreary wilderness, and died of hunger, or been lost in some of its dreadful morasses. The great Dismal Swamp is 10 or 12 miles distant from Norfolk; and the lake in the middle of it (about 7 miles long) is called Drummond's. pond. 'They have made her a grave too cold and damp,
For a soul so warm and true,
And she's gone to the lake of the Dismal Swamp,
Where all night long, by a fire-fly lamp,
She paddles her white canoe.
'And her fire-fly lamp I soon shall see,
Away to the Dismal Swamp he speeds,
And when on earth he sunk to sleep,