Ring, joyous chords!-ring forth again!

A swifter still, and a wilder strain !

-But thou, though a reckless mien be thine,
And thy cup be crown'd with the foaming wine,
By the fitful bursts of thy laughter loud,

By thine eye's quick flash through its troubled cloud,

I know thee!-it is but the wakeful fear

Of a haunted bosom that brings thee here!

I know thee!-thou fearest the solemn night,

With her piercing stars and her deep wind's might! 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!
A swifter still, and a wilder strain !

And bring fresh wreaths!-we will banish all
Save the free in heart from our festive hall.
On through the maze of the fleet dance, on!
-But where are the young and the lovely?-gone!
Where are the brows with the red rose crown'd,
And the floating forms with the bright zone bound?

And the waving locks and the flying feet,

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,
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'ersweeping,
-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 '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,
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!

* 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.