THE SONGS OF OUR FATHERS.

Sing aloud

Old songs, the precious music of the heart."

Wordsworth.

SING them

upon the sunny hills,

When days are long and bright,

And the blue gleam of shining rills

Is loveliest to the sight.

Sing them along the misty moor,

Where ancient hunters roved,

And swell them through the torrent's roarThe songs our fathers loved!

The

songs their souls rejoiced to hear When harps were in the hall,

And each proud note made lance and spear Thrill on the banner'd wall:

The songs that through our valleys green, Sent on from age to age,

Like his own river's voice, have been

The peasant's heritage.

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 roved-
Sing to your sons those melodies,
The songs your fathers loved.

THE BURIAL

OF

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!

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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 fill'd—
And it shall not give him rest.