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SLEEP 'midst thy banners furld ! 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!

Perchance 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'ersweep

ing, -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 ʼmidst a dreaming world, Thou hast lain thus, with all thy banners furld!

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 fever'd brow! Wake with the trumpet, with the spear press on ! --Yet shall the dust take home its mortal son.


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 ;
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 Lady's Well.
There is heard no Ave through thy bowers,
Thou art gleaming lone 'midst thy water-flowers !

* 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.

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But the herd may drink from thy gushing wave,
And there


his forehead lave, And the woodman seeks thee not in vain-Bright Fount! thou art nature's own again!

Fount of the Virgin's ruin'd 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


'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!


“In the Elysium of the ancients, we find none but heroes and persons who had either been fortunate or distinguished on earth ; the children, and apparently the slaves and lower classes, that is to say, Poverty, Misfortune, and Innocence, were banished to the infernal regions."

Chateaubriand, Génie du Christianisme.

Fair wert thou, in the dreams Of elder time, thou land of glorious flowers, And summer-winds, and low-ton'd silvery streams, Dim with the shadows of thy laurel-bowers!

Where, as they pass’d, bright hours Left no faint sense of parting, such as clings To earthly love, and joy in loveliest things!

Fair wert thou, with the light
On thy blue hills and sleepy waters cast,
From purple skies ne'er deepening into night,
Yet soft, as if each moment were their last

Of glory, fading fast
Along the mountains !--but thy golden day
Was not as those that warn us of decay.

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