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. OUR LADY'S WELL.* FOUNT of the woods! thou art hid no more, As the boughs are sway'd o'er thy silvery glass; * 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. Fount of the vale! thou art sought no more 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 !— 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, THE PARTING OF SUMMER. THOU'RT bearing hence thy roses, Glad Summer, fare thee well! Thou'rt singing thy last melodies But ere the golden sunset Of thy latest lingering day, Oh! tell me, o'er this chequered earth, Brightly, sweet Summer! brightly To the joyous birds of the woodland boughs, The rangers of the sky. |