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The reaper sings them when the vale
Is fill'd with plumy sheaves ;
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 :
They bid our streams roll on,
Where valiant deeds were done.
Teach them your children round the hearth;
When evening-fires burn clear,
And on the hills of deer!
When far those loved ones roam,
To childhood's holy home.
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.
WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR.
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.