SLEEP 'midst thy banners forl'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 the e
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 that bore,
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 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!
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 heard 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 woodman 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 heard!
-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 covered in with a chapel, now in ruins. It was dedicated to the Vir gin, and, according to Pennant, much the resort of pilgrims
Thy rites are closed, and thy cross lies low,
And the changeful hours breath 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 Time shall reign,
Who bath made thee nature's own again!
"In the Elysium of the ancients, we find none but heroes and persons who had either been fortunate or distinguished on earth; the children, and apparently the slaves and lower classes, that is to say, Poverty, Misfortune, and Innocence, were banished to the infernal regions." Chateaubriand, Genie 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 warn 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 Amaranth-bowers might dwell,
And listen to the swell
Of those majestic hymn-notes, and inhale
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 retained no trace,
Save a flower springing from their burial-scd,
A shade of sadness on some kindred face,
In some sweet home ;-thou hadst no wreaths for these, Thou sunny land! with all thy deathless trees!
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 compressed;
-He might not be thy guest!
No gentle breathings from thy distant sky
Came o'er his path, and whisper'd "Liberty!"
Calm, on its leaf-strewn bier,
Unlike a gift of nature to decay,
Too rose-like still, too beautiful, too dear,
The child at rest before its mother lay;
E'en so to pass away,
With its bright smile!-Elysium!
To her who wept o'er that young slumberer's brow?
Thou hadst no home, green land!
For the fair creature from her bosom gone,
With life's first flowers just opening in her hand,
And all the lovely thoughts and dreams unknown,
Which in its clear eye shone
Like the spring's wakening!-but that light was past-
-Where went the dew-drop, swept before the blast?
Not where thy soft winds play'd,
Not where thy waters lay in glassy sleep!-
Fade, with thy bowers, thou land of visions, fade!
From thee no voice came o'er the gloomy deep,
And bade man cease to weep!
Fade, with the amaranth-plain, the myrtle-grove,
Which could not yield one hope to sorrowing love!
For the most loved are they,
Of whom Fame speaks not with her clarion voice
In regal halls!-the shades o'erhang their way,
The vale with its deep fountains, is their choice,
And gentle hearts rejoice
Around their steps!-till silently they die,
As a stream shrinks from summer's burning eye.
And the world knows not then,
Not then, nor ever, what pure thoughts are fled!
Yet these are they, that on the souls of men
Come back, when night her folding veil hath spread,
The long-remember'd dead!
But not with thee might aught save glory dwell-
-Fade, fade away, thou shore of Asphodel!
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