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! And bring fresh wreaths!-we will banish all 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, Stillness hath smooth'd thy brow, And now might love keep timid vigils by thee, Tread lightly, watchers!-now the field is won, Perchance some lovely dream Back from the stormy fight thy soul is bearing, 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 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 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 * 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. But the herd may drink from thy gushing wave, 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 sky; 'Midst the mirthful song of the summer-bird, 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; If peace to the mourner hath here been given, |