THE SONGS OF OUR FATHERS.

“ Sing aloud
Old songs, the precious music of the heart.”

Wordsworth.

Sing them upon the sunny bills,

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 rov’d,
And swell them through the torrent's roar-

The songs our fathers lov'd!

The songs their souls rejoic'd 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 spell of lingering 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.

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THE SONGS OF OUR FATHERS.

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 lov'd ones roam,
Call back the hearts that once it stirr'd,

To childhood's holy home.

The green woods of their native land

Shall whisper in the strain,
The voices of their household band

Shall sweetly speak again ;
The heathery heights in vision rise

Where like the stag they rov'd-
Sing to your sons those melodies,

The songs your fathers lov’d.

THE BURIAL

OF

WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR.

Lowly upon his bier

The royal conqueror lay,
Baron and chief stood near

Silent in war-array.

Down the long minster's aisle,

Crowds mutely gazing stream'd, Altar and tomb, the while,

Through mists of incense gleam'd :

And by the torch's blaze

The stately priest had said High words of power and praise,

To the glory of the dead.

They lower'd him, with the sound

Of requiems, to repose, When from the throngs around

A solemn voice arose :

“Forbear, forbear!” it cried,

“ In the holiest name forbear! He hath conquer'd regions wide,

But he shall not slumber there.

By the violated hearth

Which made way for yon proud shrine, By the harvests which this earth

Hath borne to me and mine;

“By the home ev'n here o'erthrown,

On my children's native spot,Hence! with his dark renown

Cumber our birth-place not !

“Will my sire's unransom'd field

O'er which your censers wave, To the buried spoiler yield

Soft slumber in the grave ?