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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-
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,

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 in the fields of harvest mirth,

And on the hills of deer.
So shall each unforgotten word,

When far those loved ones roam,
Call back the hearts which once it stirr'd,

To childhood's holy home.

The green woods of their native land

Shall whisper in the strain,
The voices of their household band

Shall breathe their names again;
The heathery heights in vision rise,

Where, like the stag, they roved.
Sing to your sons those melodies,

The songs your fathers loved !

THE WORLD IN THE OPEN AIR.

COME, while in freshness and dew it lies,
To the world that is under the free blue skies !
Leave ye man's home, and forget his care-
There breathes no sigh on the dayspring's air.

Come to the woods, in whose mossy dells
A light all made for the poet dwells-
A light, colour'd softly by tender leaves,
Whence the primrose a mellower glow receives.

The stock-dove is there in the beechen tree,
And the lulling tone of the honey-bee;
And the voice of cool waters midst feathery fern,
Shedding sweet sounds from some hidden urn.

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
The homes and the sorrows of human kind.
It is well to rove where the river leads
Its bright blue vein along sunny meads:

It is well through the rich wild woods to go,
And to pierce the haunts of the fawn and doe;
And to hear the gushing of gentle springs,
When the heart has been fretted by worldly

stings;

And to watch the colours that fit and pass,
With insect-wings, through the wavy grass;
And the silvery gleams o'er the ash-tree's bark,
Borne in with a breeze through the foliage dark.

Joyous and far shall our wanderings be,
As the flight of birds o'er the glittering sea :
To the woods, to the dingles where violets blow,
We will bear no memory of earthly woe.

But if by the forest-brook we meet
A line like the pathway of former feet;
If, midst the hills, in some lonely spot,
We reach the grey ruins of tower or cot;

If the cell, where a hermit of old hath pray'd,
Lift up its cross through the solemn shade;
Or if some nook, where the wild flowers wave,
Bear token sad of a mortal grave,-

Doubt not but there will our steps be stay'd,
There our quick spirits awhile delay'd;
There will thought fix our impatient eyes,
And win back our hearts to their sympathies.

For what though the mountains and skies be fair,
Steep'd in soft hues of the summer air ?
'Tis the soul of man, by its hopes and dreams,
That lights up all nature with living gleams.

Where it hath suffer'd and nobly striven,
Where it hath pour’d forth its vows to heaven;
Where to repose it hath brightly pass’d,
O’er this green earth there is glory cast.

And by that soul, midst groves and rills,
And flocks that feed on a thousand hills,
Birds of the forest, and flowers of the sod,
We, only we, may be link'd to God!

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