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I know thee! it is but the wakeful fear
Of a haunted bosom that brings thee here !
I know thee !—thou fearest the solemn night,
With her piercing stars and her deep wind's might !
There's a tone in her voice which thou fain wouldst
shun, For it asks what the secret soul hath done! And thou—there's a dark weight on thine-away!
Back to thy home, and pray!
Ring, joyous chords !-ring out again!
A swifter still, and a wilder strain !
And bring fresh wreaths !—we will banish all
Save the free in heart from our festive hall.
On! through the maze of the fleet dance, on !
But where are the young and the lovely gone?
Where are the brows with the Red Cross crown'd,
And the floating forms with the bright zone bound?
And the waving locks and the flying feet,
That still should be where the mirthful meet ?
They are gone-they are fled—they are parted all :
Alas! the forsaken hall !
SLEEP midst thy banners furld ! Yes ! thou art there, upon thy buckler lying, With the soft wind unfelt around thee sighing, Thou chief of hosts, whose trumpet shakes the world! Sleep, while the babe sleeps on its mother's breast. Oh! strong is night-for thou too art at rest !
Stillness hath smooth'd thy brow,
And now might love keep timid vigils by thee,
Now might the foe with stealthy foot draw nigh
Alike unconscious and defenceless thou !
Tread lightly, watchers ! Now the field is won,
Break not the rest of nature's weary son!
Perchance some lovely dream
Back from the stormy fight thy soul is bearing,
To the green places of thy boyish daring,
And all the windings of thy native stream.
Why, this were joy! Upon the tented plain,
Dream on thou Conqueror !-be a child again !
But thou wilt wake at morn,
With thy strong passions to the conflict leaping,
And thy dark troubled thoughts all earth o'er-
So wilt thou rise, O thou of woman born!
And put thy terrors on, till none may dare
upon thee—the tired one, slumbering there!
Why, so the peasant sleeps Beneath his vine!—and man must kneel before thee, And for his birthright vainly still implore thee! Shalt thou be stay'd because thy brother weeps ?Wake! and forget that midst a dreaming world, Thou hast lain thus, with all thy banners furld !
Forget that thou, even thou, Hast feebly shiver'd when the wind pass’d o'er thee,
And sunk to rest upon the earth which bore thee, And felt the night-dew chill thy fever'd brow! Wake with the trumpet, with the spear press on! Yet shall the dust take home its mortal son.
FOUNT of the woods! thou art hid no more
From heaven's clear eye, as in time of yore.
For the roof hath sunk from thy mossy walls,
And the sun's free glance on thy slumber falls;
And the dim tree-shadows across thee pass,
As the boughs are sway'd o’er thy silvery glass;
And the reddening leaves to thy breast are blown,
When the autumn wind hath a stormy tone;
And thy bubbles rise to the flashing rain-
Bright Fount! thou art nature's own again!
Fount of the vale! thou art sought no more
,By the pilgrim's foot, as in time of yore,
When he came from afar, his beads to tell,
And to chant his hymn at Our Lady's Well.
There is heard no Ave through thy bowers,
Thou art gleaming lone midst thy water-flowers !
But the herd may drink from thy gushing wave,
And there may the reaper his forehead lave,
And the woodman seeks thee not in vain
Bright Fount! thou art nature's own again!
* A beautiful spring in the woods near St Asapb, formerly covered in with a chapel, now in ruins. It was dedi. cated to the Virgin, and, according to Pennant, much the resort of pilgrims.-See Vignette.
Fount of the Virgin's ruin'd shrine!
A voice that speaks of the past is thine!
It mingles the tone of a thoughtful sigh
With the notes that ring through the laughing sky;
Midst the mirthful song of the summer bird,
And the sound of the breeze, it will yet be heard !-
Why is it that thus we may gaze on thee,
To the brilliant sunshine sparkling free ?
'Tis that all on earth is of Time's domain-
He hath made thee nature's own again!
Fount of the chapel with ages grey!
Thou art springing freshly amidst decay;
Thy rites are closed, and thy cross lies low,
And the changeful hours breathe o'er thee now.
Yet if at thine altar one holy thought
In man's deep spirit of old hath wrought;
If peace to the mourner hath here been given,
Or prayer, from a chasten'd heart, to heaven
Be the spot still hallow'd while Time shall reign,
Who hath made thee nature's own again!
THOU'RT bearing hence thy roses,
Glad summer, fare thee well!
Thou’rt singing thy last melodies
In every wood and dell.
But ere the golden sunset
Of thy latest lingering day,
Oh! tell me, o'er this chequer'd earth,
How hast thou pass'd away?
Brightly, sweet Summer! brightly
Thine hours have floated by, To the joyous birds of the woodland boughs,
The rangers of the sky;
And brightly in the forests,
To the wild deer wandering free;
And brightly, midst the garden flowers,
To the happy murmuring bee :
But how to human bosoms,
With all their hopes and fears,
And thoughts that make them eagle-wings,
To pierce the unborn years?
Sweet Summer! to the captive
Thou hast flown in burning dreams Of the woods, with all their whispering leaves,
And the blue rejoicing streams ;
To the wasted and the weary
On the bed of sickness bound, In swift delirious fantasies,
That changed with every sound ;
To the sailor on the billows,
In longings, wild and vain,
For the gushing founts and breezy hills,
And the homes of earth again !