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 Fount of the vale! thou art sought no more And the woodman seeks thee not in vain- * 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! With the notes that ring through the laughing sky; And the sound of the breeze, it will yet be heard!— Fount of the chapel with ages grey! In man's deep spirit of old hath wrought; THE PARTING OF SUMMER. THOU'RT bearing hence thy roses, But ere the golden sunset Of thy latest lingering day, Oh! tell me, o'er this chequer'd earth, 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; But how to human bosoms, With all their hopes and fears, And thoughts that make them eagle-wings, 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! Thou hast flown in wayward visions, In brief and sudden strivings 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 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! Sing them along the misty moor, And swell them through the torrent's roar, The songs their souls rejoiced to hear And each proud note made lance and spear The songs that through our valleys green, Like his own river's voice, have been The reaper sings them when the vale 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 A memory of the gentle dead, Murmuring the names of mighty men, |