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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 spell of lingering 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 that 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 sweetly speak again ;

The heathery heights in vision rise

Where like the stag they rovedSing to your sons those melodies,

The songs your fathers loved.




LOWLY upon his bier

The royal conqueror lay, Baron and chief stood near

Silent in war-array.

Down the long minster's aisle,

Crowds mutely gazing stream’d, Altar and tomb, the while,

Through mists of incense gleam'd:

And by the torch's blaze

The stately priest had said High words of power and praise,

To the glory of the dead.

They lower'd him, with the sound

Of requiems, to repose, When from the throngs around A solemn voice arose :

“Forbear, forbear!” it cried,

“In the holiest name forbear! He hath conquer'd regions wide,

But he shall not slumber there.

"By the violated hearth

Which made way for yon proud shrine, By the harvests which this earth

Hath borne to me and mine ;

“ By the home ev'n here o'erthrown,

On my children's native spot, Hence! with his dark renown

Cumber our birth-place not!

“Will my sire's unransom'd field

O'er which your censers wave, To the buried spoiler yield

Soft slumber in the grave ?

“ The tree before him fell

Which we cherish'd many a year, But its deep root yet shall swell

And heave against his bier.

“The land that I have till’d,

Hath yet its brooding breast With my home's white ashes fillid

And it shall not give him rest.

“Here each proud column's bed

Hath been wet by weeping eyes, — Hence! and bestow your dead

Where no wrong against him cries!”

Shame glow'd on each dark face

Of those proud and steel-girt men, And they bought with gold a place

For their leader's dust e'en then.

A little earth for him

Whose banner flew so far! And a peasant's tale could dim

The name, a nation's star!

One deep voice thus arose

From a heart which wrongs had rivenOh! who shall number those

That were but heard in Heaven? *

* For the particulars of this and other scarcely less remarkable circumstances which attended the obsequies of William the Conqueror, see Sismondi's Histoire des Français, vol. iv.

p. 480.

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