OUR LADY'S WELL.* BY MRS. HEMANS. FOUNT of the woods! thou art hid no more Fount of the vale! thou art sought no more And the woodman seeks thee not in vain- Fount of the Virgin's ruined shrine! With the notes that ring through the laughing sky; -"Tis that all on earth is of Time's domain - • 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. Fount of the chapel with ages grey! Thou art springing freshly amidst decay! And the changeful hours breathe o'er thee now! In man's deep spirit of old hath wrought; to the mourner hath here been given, New Monthly Magazine. THE DIRGE OF WALLACE. BY THOMAS CAMPBELL, ESQ. THEY lighted a taper at dead of night, And chaunted their holiest hymn; But her brow and her bosom were damp with affrightHer eye was all sleepless and dim! And the Lady of Elderslie wept for her lord, When a death-watch beat in her lonely room, When her curtain had shook of its own accord, And the raven had flapped at her window-board, To tell of her warrior's doom! Now sing ye the death-song, and loudly pray And call me a widow this wretched day, Yet knew not his country that ominous hour, That a trumpet of death on an English tower Oh, it was not thus when his oaken spear And hosts of a thousand were scattered like deer, When he strode on the wreck of each well-fought field, Yet bleeding and bound, though the Wallace wight The bugle ne'er sung to a braver knight Than William of Elderslie! But the day of his glory shall never depart; His head, unentombed, shall with glory be palmed; From its blood-streaming altar his spirit shall start; Though the raven has fed on his mouldering heart, A nobler was never embalmed! ANNA'S GRAVE. BY WILLIAM GIFFORD, ESQ. I wish I was where Anna lies, For I am sick of lingering here; And every hour affection cries, Go and partake her humble bier. I wish I could! for when she died I lost my all; and life has proved But who, when I am turned to clay, And pluck the ragged moss away, And weeds that have no business there? And who with pious hands shall bring The flowers she cherished, snow-drops cold, And violets that unheeded spring, To scatter o'er her hallowed mould? And who, while memory loves to dwell I did it; and would fate allow, Would visit still, would still deploreBut health and strength have left me now, And I, alas! can weep no more. Take then, sweet maid! this simple strain, And can thy soft, persuasive look, Thy matchless eloquence of eye; Thy spirits, frolicsome as good, Perhaps but sorrow dims my eye: Cold turf, which I no more must view, AN EVENING SKETCH. BY D. M. MOIR. THE Songsters of the groves have ceased their song, Of yonder ash tree, from his mellow throat, Chaunts forth his evening hymn.-'Tis twilight now; In glory hath declined. The mighty clouds, Like pillars of some tabernacle grand, Changing its sapphire majesty to gold. Are slumbering through their multitude of boughs; |