E. E.
[432] Dr. Young.
[433] Shakspeare.
For the Table Book.
THE SOLDIER’S RETURN.
A Fragment.
The sound of trumpet, drum and fife
Are fit for younger men,
He seeks the calm retreat of life,
His Mary and his glen.
——Many days and nights the wounded soldier travelled with his knapsack and stick to reach his native place, and find solace in the bosom of his relatives. The season merged into the solstice of winter, the roads were bad, his feet were tender, and his means were scanty. Few persons in years could have borne the fatigue and hardships he endured; but if he could find his wished-for Mary, he trusted all would be well—his spirit could not break while the hope of his earliest attachment survived. He had fought hard in the conflict of the battle-field—the conflict of love had not smoothed his “wrinkled front.” He trudged onward, and persevered till he reached the cottage of his nativity. It was humble but neat. He drew the latch, crossed the threshhold, and entered the domicile. An elderly female was lying on a bed. Her niece sat by the bedside reading to her. The maiden rose, and, putting the book aside, questioned his name and business. He threw down his knapsack; he caught the countenance, though faded from its youth, like his, of his dear, bedridden Mary, and, clasping his hands with hers, sat many hours reciting his history, and listening in tears to her afflictions, occasioned by his roving disposition. He now, to make reparation, seasoned her hopes by promises of final rest with her till their suns should set together in the sphere of earthly repose; for Mary was the only person living of all his once numerous companions in the Glen—
———.