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And well he feels, no error of the dust
Drew to the stars of Heaven his mortal ken,
There it is with us, ev'n as is our trust,

He that believes, is near the holy then.

There shall each feeling beautiful and high,

Keep the sweet promise of its earthly day;Oh! fear thou not to dream with waking eye! There lies deep meaning oft in childish play.

THE REVELLERS.

RING, joyous chords !-ring out again!
A swifter still, and a wilder strain !

They are here--the fair face and the careless heart,
And stars shall wane ere the mirthful part.—

But I met a dimly mournful glance,

In a sudden turn of the flying dance;
I heard the tone of a heavy sigh,

In a pause of the thrilling melody!

And it is not well that woe should breathe

On the bright spring flowers of the festal wreath!-
Ye that to thought or to grief belong,
Leave, leave the hall of song!

Ring, joyous chords !-but who art thou

With the shadowy locks o'er thy pale young brow, And the world of dreamy gloom that lies

In the misty depths of thy soft dark eyes?

Thou hast loved, fair girl! thou hast loved too well!
Thou art mourning now o'er a broken spell;
Thou hast pour'd thy heart's rich treasures forth,
And art unrepaid for their priceless worth!
Mourn on !-yet come thou not here the while,
It is but a pain to see thee smile!

There is not a tone in our songs for thee—
Home with thy sorrows flee!

Ring, joyous chords !-ring out again !—
But what dost thou with the Revel's train?
A silvery voice through the soft air floats,
But thou hast no part in the gladdening notes
There are bright young faces that pass thee
But they fix no glance of thy wandering eye

Away! there's a void in thy yearning breast,
Thou weary man! wilt thou here find rest?
Away! for thy thoughts from the scene have fled,
And the love of thy spirit is with the dead!
Thou art but more lone midst the sounds of mirth-
Back to thy silent hearth!

Ring, joyous chords!-ring forth again!
A swifter still, and a wilder strain!—
But thou, though a reckless mien be thine,

And thy cup be crown'd with the foaming wine,
By the fitful bursts of thy laughter loud,

By thine eye's quick flash through its troubled cloud,
I know thee !it is but the wakeful fear

Of a haunted bosom that brings thee here!

I know thee!-thou fearest the solemn night,

With her piercing stars and her deep wind's might!
There's a tone in her voice which thou fain wouldst shun,
For it asks what the secret soul hath done!

And thou-there's a dark weight on thine-away!—
Back to thy home and pray!

Ring, joyous chords !-ring out again!
A swifter still, and a wilder strain!

And bring fresh wreaths !—we will banish all
Save the free in heart from our festive hall.
On! through the maze of the fleet dance, on !—
But where are the young and the lovely?-gone!
Where are the brows with the red rose crown'd,
And the floating forms with the bright zone bound?
And the waving locks and the flying feet,

That still should be where the mirthful meet !-
They are gone-they are fled-they are parted all—
Alas! the forsaken hall!

THE CONQUEROR'S SLEEP.

SLEEP 'midst thy banners furl'd!

Yes! thou art there, upon thy buckler lying,

With the soft wind unfelt around thee sighing,

Thou chief of hosts, whose trumpet shakes the world! Sleep while the babe sleeps on its mother's breast

Oh! strong is night-for thou too art at rest!

Stillness hath smooth'd thy brow,

And now might love keep timid vigils by thee,

.Now might the foe with stealthy foot draw nigh thee,
Alike unconscious and defenceless thou!

Tread lightly, watchers! now the field is won,
Break not the rest of nature's weary son!

erchance some lovely dream

Back from the stormy fight thy soul is bearing
To the green places of thy boyish daring,
And all the windings of thy native stream ;-
Why, this were joy! upon the tented plain,
Dream on, thou conqueror !—be a child again!

But thou wilt wake at morn,

'With thy strong passions to the conflict leaping,
And thy dark, troubled thoughts all earth o'ersweeping;
So wilt thou rise, oh! thou of woman born!
And put thy terrors on, till none may dare
Look upon thee the tired one, slumbering there!

Why, so the peasant sleeps

Beneath his vine !—and man must kneel before thee,
And for his birthright vainly still implore thee!
Shalt thou be stay'd because thy brother weeps ?—
Wake! and forget that 'midst a dreaming world,
Thou hast lain thus, with all thy banners furl'd!

Forget that thou, ev❜n thou,

Hast feebly shiver'd when the wind pass'd o'er thee,
And sunk to rest upon the earth which bore thee,
And felt the night-dew chill thy fevered 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;

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.

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 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!

Fount of the Virgin's ruined 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!

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