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Go, when the sabbath bell is heard*
When the dark old woods and caves are stirr'd
To gladness by the note;
When forth, along their thousand rills,
And while the song of praise ascends,
Rejoice, that human heart, through scorn,
Through shame, through death, made strong, Before the rocks and heavens have borne
Witness of God so long!
THE SONGS OF OUR FATHERS.
"Sing aloud Old songs, the precious music of the heart." Wordsworth.
SING them upon the sunny hills,
Sing them along the misty moor,
And swell them through the torrent's roar-
The songs their souls rejoiced to hear
And each proud note made lance and spear
*See 'Gilley's Researches among the mountains of Piedmont,' for an interesting description of a sabbath day in the upper regions of the Vaudois. The inhabitants of those Protestant valleys, who like the Swiss, repair with their flocks and herds to the summits of the hills during the summer, are followed thither by their pastors, and at that season of the year assemble on that sacred day, to wor ship in the open air.
The songs that through our valleys green,
The reaper sings them when the vale
Where the dark rocks that crest our shores
So let it be a light they shed
O'er each old fount and grove;
Teach them your children round the hearth,
So shall each unforgotten word,
The green woods of their native land
Shall sweetly speak again;
Where like the stag they rovedSing to your sons those melodies, The songs your father loved.
THE BURIAL OF WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR.
LOWLY upon his bier
The royal conqueror lay,
Down the long minster's aisle,
Crowds mutely gazing stream'd,
Through mists of incense gleam'd:
And by the torch's blaze
The stately priest had said
They lower'd him, with the sound
"In the holiest name forbear!
But he shall not slumber there.
"By the violated hearth
Which made way for yon proud shrine,
"By the home ev'n here o'erthrown,
Cumber our birth-place not!
Q'er which your censers wave,
Soft slumber in the grave?
"The tree before him fell
Which we cherish'd many a year,
Hath yet its brooding breast
Hath been wet by weeping eyes,-
Where no wrong against him cries!"
Of those proud and steel-girt men,
For their leader's dust e'en then.
A little earth for him
Whose banner flew so far!
One deep voice thus arose
From a heart which wongs had riven-
That were but heard in Heaven? *
* For the particulars of this and other scarcely less remarkable circumstances which attended the obsequies of William the Conqueror, see Sismondi's Histoire des Francais, vol. iv. p. 480.
THE SOUND OF THE SEA.
THOU art sounding on, thou mighty sea,
Whose thunders naught can tame.
From the rich bowers of earth, And hush'd is many a lovely one
Of mournfulness or mirth.
The Dorian flute that sigh'd of yore
The harp of Judah peals no more
And Memnon's lyre hath lost the chord
And the songs at Rome's high triumphs pour'd,
And mute the Moorish horn, that rang
O'er stream and mountain free,
And the hymn the leagued Crusaders sang,
But thou art swelling on, thou deep,
Thou Itftest up thy solemn voice
And all our earth's green shores rejoice
It fills the noontide's calm profound,
Let there be silence, deep and strange,
Thou speak'st of one who doth not clrange-