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Ring, joyous chords !-ring out again!
-But what dost thou with the Revel's train?
A silvery voice through the soft air floats,
But thou hast no part in the gladdening notes ;
There are bright young faces that pass
But they fix no glance of thy wandering eye!
Away! there 's a void in thy yearning breast,
Thou weary man! wilt thou here find rest?
Away! for thy thoughts from the scene have fled,
And the love of thy spirit is with the dead!
Thou art but more loue 'midst the sounds of mirthern
--Back to thy silent hearth!
Ring, joyous chords ! ring forth again!
A swifter still, and a wilder strain !
-But thou, though a reckless mien be tbine,
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 tby 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 inirthful meet!
--They are gone--they are fled-they are parted all-
Alas! the forsaken hall !
SLEEP 'midst thy banners furld!
Yes! thou art there, upɔn 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 oight--for thou too art at rest!
Stillness bath 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 wil: 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!
Sbalt 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
Fount of the woods! thou art hid no more,
From Heaven's clear eye, as in time of yore!
For the roof bath sunk from thy inossy 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!
Fount of the vale ! thou art sought no more
By the pilgrim's foot, as in time of yore,
When he came from afar, his beads to tell,
And to chant his hymn at Our Lady's Well.
There is beard no Ave through thy bowers,
Thou art gleaming lone 'midst thy water-flowers!
But the herd may drink from thy gushing wave,
And there may the reaper his forehead lave,
And the woodinan seeks thee not in vain-
-Bright Fount ! thou art nature's own again.
Fount of the Virgin's ruin'd shrine !
A voice that speaks of the past is thine!
It mingles the tone of a thoughtful sigh,
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 bcard !
-Why is it that thus we may gaze on thee,
To the brilliant sunshine sparkling free?
-Tis that all on earth is of Time's domain-
He hath made thee nature's own again!
Fount of the chapel with ages gray,
! Thou art springing freshly amidst decay!
* A beautiful spring in the woods near St. Asaph, formerly co. vered in with a chapel, now in ruins. It was dedicated to the Virgin, and, according to Pennant, much the resort of pilgrims.
Thy rites are closed, and thy cross lies low,
And the changeful hours breathe o'er thee now!
Yet if at thine altar one holy thought
In man's deep spirit of old hath wrought;
If peace to the mourner hath here been given,
Or prayer, from a chasten'd heart, to Heaven,
Be the spot still hallow'd while l'ime shall reign,
Who hath made thee nature's own again!
“ la the Elysium of the ancients, we find gone but herpes and persons who had either been fortunate or distinguished on earth; ihe children, and apparently the slaves and lower classes, that is to say, Poverty, Misfortune, and Innocence, were banished to the infernal regions."
Chateaubriand, Génie du Christianisme.
Fair wert thou, in the dreams
Of elder time, thou land of glorious flowers,
And summer-winds, and low-ton'd silvery streams;
Dim with the shadows of thy laurel-bowers !
Where, as they pass'd, bright hours
Left no faint sense of parting, such as clings
To earthly love, and joy in loveliest things
Fair wert thou, with the light
On thy.blue hills and sleepy waters cast,
From purple skies ne'er deepening into night,
Yet soft, as if each moment were their last
Of glory, fading fast
Along the mountains :--but thy golden day
Was not as those that war us of decay.
And ever, through thy shades,
A swell of deep Eolian sound went by,
From fountain-voices in their secret glades,
And low reed-whispers, making sweet reply
To summer's breezy sigh!
And young leaves trembling to the wind's light breath,
Which ne'er had touch'd them with a hue of death!
And the transparent sky
Rung as a dome, all thrilling to the strain
Of harps that, 'midst the woods, made harmony
Solemn and sweet ; yet troubling not the brain
With dreams and yearnings vain,
And dim remembrances, that still draw birth
From the bewildering music of the earth.
And who, with silent tread,
Moved o'er the plains of waving Asphodel?
Who, call'd and sever'd from the countless dead,
Amidst the shadowy Amorautb-bowers might dwell,
And listen to the swell
Of those majestic hyinn-notes, and inbale
The spirit wandering in th’ immortal gale?
They of the sword, whose praise,
With the bright wine at nation's feasts, went round !
They of the lyre, whose unforgotten lays
On the morn's wing had sent their mighty sound,
And in all regions found
Their echoes 'midst the mountains and become
In man's deep heart, as voices of his home!
They of the daring thought !
Daring and powerful, yet to dust allied ;
Whose flight through stars, and seas, and depths had sought
The soul's far birth-place--but without a guide!
Sages and seers, who died,
And left the world their high mysterious dreams,
Born 'midst the olive-woods, by Grecian streams.
But they, of whose abode
'Midst her green valleys earth retain'd no trace,
Save a flower springing from their burial-sod,
A shade of sadness on some kindred face,
A void and silent place
In some sweet home ;-thou hadst no wreaths for these,
Thou sunny land! with all thy deathless trees!
The peasant, at bis door
Might sink to die, when vintage-feasts were spread,
And songs on every wind !-From thy bright shore
No lovelier vision floated round his head,
Thou wert for nobler dead!
He heard the bounding steps which round him fell,
And sigh'd to bid the festal sun farewell!
The slave, whose very tears
Were a forbidden luxury, and whose breast
Shut up the woes and burning thoughts of years,
As in the ashes of an urn compress'd ;
-He might not be thy guest !
No gentle breathings from thy distant sky
Came o'er his path, and whisper'd“Liberty!"