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 would'st 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! And bring fresh wreaths!—we will banish all That still should be where the mirthful meet?— THE CONQUEROR'S SLEEP. SLEEP 'midst thy banners furl'd! Yes! thou art there, upon thy buckler lying, 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, Perchance some lovely dream Back from the stormy fight thy soul is bearing, 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! 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, even 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, Fount of the vale! thou art sought no more * 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.-See Vignette. VOL. IV. K Fount of the Virgin's ruin'd shrine! A voice that speaks of the past is thine! With the notes that ring through the laughing sky; 'Midst the mirthful song of the summer bird, And the sound of the breeze, it will yet be heard!— Fount of the chapel with ages grey! In man's deep spirit of old hath wrought; THE PARTING OF SUMMER. THOU'RT bearing hence thy roses, But ere the golden sunset Of thy latest lingering day, Oh! tell me, o'er this chequered earth, Brightly, sweet Summer! brightly Thine hours have floated by, To the joyous birds of the woodland boughs, The rangers of the sky. And brightly in the forests, To the wild deer wandering free; And brightly, 'midst the garden flowers, Is the happy murmuring bee: But how to human bosoms, With all their hopes and fears, And thoughts that make them eagle-wings, Sweet Summer! to the captive Thou hast flown in burning dreams Of the woods, with all their whispering leaves, And the blue rejoicing streams;— To the wasted and the weary On the bed of sickness bound, In swift delirious fantasies, That changed with every sound; To the sailor on the billows, In longings, wild and vain, For the gushing founts and breezy hills, And the homes of earth again! |