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.
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 flit 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!
OH! ask not, hope thou not too much
Of sympathy below!
Few are the hearts whence one same touch
Bids the sweet fountains flow-
Few-and by still conflicting powers
Forbidden here to meet:
Such ties would make this life of ours
Too fair for aught so fleet.
It may be that thy brother's eye
Sees not as thine, which turns
In such deep reverence to the sky,
Where the rich sunset burns:
It may be that the breath of spring,
Born amidst violets lone,
A rapture o'er thy soul can bring—
A dream, to his unknown.
The tune that speaks of other times—
A sorrowful delight!
The melody of distant chimes,
The sound of waves by night, The wind that, with so many a tone, Some chord within can thrill,— These may have language all thine own, To him a mystery still.
Yet scorn thou not, for this, the true
The kindly, that from childhood grew,
The faithful to thy tears!
If there be one that o'er the dead
Hath in thy grief borne part,
And watch'd through sickness by thy bed,-
Call his a kindred heart!
But for those bonds all perfect made
Wherein bright spirits blend,
Like sister flowers of one sweet shade,
With the same breeze that bend-
For that full bliss of thought allied
Never to mortals given,
Oh! lay thy lovely dreams aside,
Or lift them unto heaven.
THE TRAVELLER AT THE SOURCE OF
THE NILE.
IN sunset's light, o'er Afric thrown,
A wanderer proudly stood
Beside the well-spring, deep and lone,
Of Egypt's awful flood-
The cradle of that mighty birth,
So long a hidden thing to earth!
He heard its life's first murmuring sound,
A low mysterious tone
A music sought, but never found
By kings and warriors gone.
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