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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-
O’er thy sunny pathway shed :
In brief and sudden strivings
To fling a weight aside-
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.”
Sing them upon the sunny hills,
When days are long and bright,
And the blue gleam of shining rills
Is loveliest to the sight!
Where ancient hunters roved,
The songs our fathers loved !
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:
Sent on from age to age,
The peasant's heritage.
The reaper sings them when the vale
Is fill'd with plumy sheaves;
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,
And link high thoughts to every glen
Where valiant deeds were done.
Teach them your children round the hearth,
When evening fires burn clear,
And on the hills of deer.
When far those loved ones roam,
To childhood's holy home.
The green woods of their native land
Shall whisper in the strain,
Shall breathe their names again;
Where, like the stag, they roved.
The songs your fathers loved !
THE WORLD IN THE OPEN AIR.
COME, while in freshness and dew it lies,
Come to the woods, in whose mossy dells
The stock-dove is there in the beechen tree,
There is life, there is youth, there is tameless
mirth, Where the streams, with the lilies they wear, have
birth; There is peace where the alders are whispering low: Come from man's dwellings with all their woe!
Yes! we will come we will leave behind
It is well through the rich wild woods to go,
And to watch the colours that fit and pass,
Joyous and far shall our wanderings be,
But if by the forest-brook we meet
If the cell, where a hermit of old hath pray'd,
Doubt not but there will our steps be stay'd,
For what though the mountains and skies be fair,
Where it hath suffer'd and nobly striven,
And by that soul, midst groves and rills,