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.

OUR LADY'S WELL.*

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 Asaph, formerly covered in with a chapel, now in ruins. It was dedicated 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!

THE PARTING OF SUMMER.

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!

And unto me, glad Summer!
How hast thou flown to me?
My chainless footstep naught hath kept
From thy haunts of song and glee.

Thou hast flown in wayward visions,
In memories of the dead-
In shadows from a troubled heart,
O'er thy sunny pathway shed :

In brief and sudden strivings
To fling a weight aside-
Midst these thy melodies have ceased,
And all thy roses died.

But oh! thou gentle Summer!

If I greet thy flowers once more, Bring me again the buoyancy Wherewith my soul should soar!

Give me to hail thy sunshine
With song and spirit free;
Or in a purer air than this
May that next meeting be!

THE SONGS OF OUR FATHERS.

"Sing aloud

Old songs, the precious music of the heart."
WORDSWORTH.

SING them upon the sunny hills,

When days are long and bright,

And the blue gleam of shining rills

Is loveliest to the sight!

Sing them along the misty moor,
Where ancient hunters roved,

And swell them through the torrent's roar,
The songs our fathers loved!-

The songs their souls rejoiced to hear
When harps were in the hall,

And each proud note made lance and spear
Thrill on the banner'd wall:

The songs that through our valleys green,
Sent on from age to age,

Like his own river's voice, have been
The peasant's heritage.

The reaper sings them when the vale
Is fill'd with plumy sheaves;
The woodman, by the starlight pale,

Cheer'd homeward through the leaves: And unto them the glancing oars

A joyous measure keep,

Where the dark rocks that crest our shores Dash back the foaming deep.

So let it be a light they shed
O'er each old fount and grove;

A memory of the gentle dead,
A lingering spell of love.

Murmuring the names of mighty men,
They bid our streams roll on,