But the herd may drink from thy gushing wave, And there may the reaper his forehead lave, And the woodman seeks thee not in vainBright 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 all that on earth is of Time's domain-
He hath made thee nature's own again!

Fount of the chapel with ages grey!
Thou art springing freshly amidst decay;
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 Time shall reign,
Who hath made thee nature's own again!

VOL. IV.- 14

THE PARTING OF SUMMER.

THOU 'RT bearing hence thy roses,
Glad summer, fare thee well!
Thou 'rt singing thy last melodies
In every wood and dell.

But ere the golden sunset

Of thy latest lingering day,

Oh! tell me, o'er this chequer'd earth,
How hast thou pass'd away?

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,
To pierce the unborn years?

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!

And unto me, glad Summer!
How hast thou flown to me?

My chainless footstep nought hath kept
From thy haunts of song and glee.

Thou hast flown in wayward visions,
In memories of the dead—

In shadows from a troubled heart,
O'er thy sunny pathway shed:

In brief and sudden strivings
To fling a weight aside-
'Midst these thy melodies have ceased,
And all thy roses died.

But oh! thou gentle Summer!

If I greet thy flowers once more,
Bring me again the buoyancy
Wherewith my soul should soar!

Give me to hail thy sunshine,
With song and spirit free;
Or in a purer air than this
May that next meeting be!

THE SONGS OF OUR FATHERS.

'Sing aloud

Old songs, the precious music of the heart."

WORDSWORTH.

SING them upon the sunny hills,
When days are long and bright,
And the blue gleam of shining rills
Is loveliest to the sight!

Sing them along the misty moor,

Where ancient hunters roved,

And swell them through the torrent's roar,
The songs our fathers loved!

The songs their souls rejoiced to hear
When harps were in the hall,

And each proud note made lance and spear
Thrill on the banner'd wall:

The songs that through our valleys green,

Sent on from age to age,

Like his own river's voice, have been

The peasant's heritage.

The reaper sings them when the vale
Is fill'd with plumy sheaves;
The woodman, by the starlight pale,

Cheer'd homeward through the leaves:

And unto them the glancing oars

A joyous measure keep,

Where the dark rocks that crest our shores Dash back the foaming deep.

So let it be!-a light they shed
O'er each old fount and grove;
A memory of the gentle dead,
A lingering spell of love.
Murmuring the names of mighty, men,
They bid our streams roll on,
And link high thoughts to every glen
Where valiant deeds were done.

Teach them your children round the hearth, When evening fires burn clear,

And in the fields of harvest mirth,

And on the hills of deer:

So shall each unforgotten word,

When far those loved ones roam,

Call back the hearts which once it stirr'd,

To childhood's holy home.

The green woods of their native land
Shall whisper in the strain,
The voices in thy household band
Shall breathe their names again;
The heathery heights in vision rise
Where, like the stag, they roved—
Sing to your sons those melodies,
The songs your fathers loved!

14*