In the meanwhile, the regiment had been again arranged in marching order, and with a blithesome quickstep, had left the green, swept up the little village to its outskirts, and then turning, was now on its way back to its starting place before Wiggins’s tavern-porch. A cloud of dust gave token to those at the porch that the martial show was approaching. The piercing fife—the rub-a-dub of the drum—and the deep blows of the bass-drum, were next heard; the arms broke glistening from the dusty cloud—down came the column with its hasty tread, and fronted before the tavern in one long line. After a few words of command, the magic words, “you’re dismissed,” sounded upon the air, and with a wild hurrah, the ranks broke into scrambling confusion, and “General Training” was ended. Wagon after wagon filled with the soldiery, rattled away; throng after throng of those on foot hurried off by the numerous roads leading into the adjacent country, and at sunset, the village had once more relapsed into its customary quiet. So have we seen a pool, shaken by a breeze, tossing its waters in confusion, and then calming itself into its usual tranquillity, uniting the scattered fragments of rock, tree and sky, again into the soft, reflected picture of its quiet and beautiful mirror.
TO THE LILY OF THE VALLEY.
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BY PROFESSOR CAMPBELL.
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Sweet little flower,
That hang’st thy fair and modest head
Beneath the shower,
And bendest o’er thy parent bed,