-He was the bard of gifts divine, To sway the hearts of men ; He of the song for Salem's shrine, He of the Sword and Pen ! TO THE POET WORDSWORTH. THINE is a strain to read amongst the hills, The old and full of voices-by the source Even such is thy deep song, that seems a part Or its calm spirit fitly may be taken To the still breast, in some sweet garden-bowers, Where summer winds each tree's low tones awaken, And bud and bell with changes mark the hours. There let thy thoughts be with me, while the day Sinks with a golden and serene decay. Or by some hearth where happy faces meet, When night hath hush'd the woods with all their birds, Or where the shadows of dark solemn yews True bard and holy !-thou art e'en as one Sees where the springs of living waters lie Unseen awhile they sleep-till, touch'd by thee, Bright, healthful waves flow forth, to each glad wanderer free! THE SONG OF THE CURFEW. HARK! from the dim church-tower, Sadly 'twas heard by him who came From the fields of his toil at night, And who might not see his own hearth's flame Sadly and sternly heard As it quench'd the wood-fire's glow, Which had cheer'd the board, with the mirthful word, And the red wine's foaming flow; Until that sullen, booming knell, Flung out from every fane, On harp, and lip, and spirit fell, With a weight, and with a chain. Woe for the wanderer then In the wild-deer's forests far! No cottage lamp, to the haunts of men, And woe for him, whose wakeful soul, Would have liv'd o'er some immortal scroll, And yet a deeper woe, For the watchers by the bed, Where the fondly lov'd, in pain lay low, For the mother, doom'd unseen to keep And to feel its flitting pulse, and weep, Darkness, in chieftain's hall! Darkness, in peasant's cot! While Freedom, under that shadowy pall, Sat mourning o'er her lot. |