Yes, it is haunted, this quiet scene,
Fair as it looks, and all softly green;
Yet fear not thou—for the spell is thrown,
And the might of the shadow, on me alone.
Are thy thoughts wandering to elves and fays,
And spirits that dwell where the water plays?
Oh! in the heart there are stronger powers,
That sway, though viewless, this world of ours!
Have I not lived midst these lonely dells,
And loved, and sorrow’d, and heard farewells,
And learn’d in my own deep soul to look,
And tremble before that mysterious book?
Have I not, under these whispering leaves,
Woven such dreams as the young heart weaves?
Shadows—yet unto which life seem’d bound;
And is it not—is it not haunted ground?
Must I not hear what thou hearest not,
Troubling the air of the sunny spot?
Is there not something to rouse but me,
Told by the rustling of every tree?
Song hath been here, with its flow of thought;
Love, with its passionate visions fraught;
Death, breathing stillness and sadness round;
And is it not—is it not haunted ground?
Are there no phantoms, but such as come
By night from the darkness that wraps the tomb?
A sound, a scent, or a whispering breeze,
Can summon up mightier far than these!
But I may not linger amidst them here!
Lovely they are, and yet things to fear;
Passing and leaving a weight behind,
And a thrill on the chords of the stricken mind.
Away, away!—that my soul may soar
As a free bird of blue skies once more!
Here from its wing it may never cast
The chain by those spirits brought back from the past.
Doubt it not—smile not—but go thou, too,
Look on the scenes where thy childhood grew—
Where thou hast pray’d at thy mother’s knee,
Where thou hast roved with thy brethren free;
Go thou, when life unto thee is changed,
Friends thou hast loved as thy soul, estranged;
When from the idols thy heart hath made,
Thou hast seen the colours of glory fade.
Oh! painfully then, by the wind’s low sigh,
By the voice of the stream, by the flower-cup’s dye,
By a thousand tokens of sight and sound,
Thou wilt feel thou art treading on haunted ground.

THE CHILD OF THE FORESTS.

WRITTEN AFTER READING THE MEMOIRS OF JOHN HUNTER.

[On one occasion, Mrs Hemans was somewhat ludicrously disenchanted, through the medium of a North American Review, on the subject of a self-constituted hero, whose history (which suggested her little poem, “The Child of the Forests”) she had read with unquestioning faith and lively interest. This was the redoubtable John Dunn Hunter, whose marvellous adventures amongst the Indians—by whom he represented himself to have been carried away in childhood—were worked up into a plausible narrative, admirably calculated to excite the sympathies of its readers. But how far it was really deserving of them, may be judged by the following extract from a letter to a friend who had been similarly mystified:—“I send you a North American Review, which will mortify C. and you with the sad intelligence that John Hunter—even our own John Dunn—the man of the panther’s skin—the adopted of the Kansas—the shooter with the rifle—no, with the long bow—is, I blush to say it, neither more nor less than an impostor; no better than Psalmanazar; no, no better than Carraboo herself. After this, what are we to believe again? Are there any Loo Choo Islands? Was there ever any Robinson Crusoe? Is there any Rammohun Roy? All one’s faith and trust is shaken to its foundations. No one here sympathises with me properly on this annoying occasion; but you, I think, will know how to feel, who have been quite as much devoted to that vile John Dunn as myself.”—Memoir, pp. 95-6.]

Is not thy heart far off amidst the woods,
Where the red Indian lays his father’s dust,
And, by the rushing of the torrent floods,
To the Great Spirit bows in silent trust?
Doth not thy soul o’ersweep the foaming main,
To pour itself upon the wilds again?
They are gone forth, the desert’s warrior race,
By stormy lakes to track the elk and roe;
But where art thou, the swift one in the chase,
With thy free footstep and unfailing bow?
Their singing shafts have reach’d the panther’s lair,
And where art thou?—thine arrows are not there.
They rest beside their streams—the spoil is won—
They hang their spears upon the cypress bough;
The night-fires blaze, the hunter’s work is done—
They hear the tales of old—but where art thou?
The night-fires blaze beneath the giant pine,
And there a place is fill’d that once was thine.
For thou art mingling with the city’s throng,
And thou hast thrown thine Indian bow aside;
Child of the forests! thou art borne along,
E’en as ourselves, by life’s tempestuous tide.
But will this be? and canst thou here find rest?
Thou hadst thy nurture on the desert’s breast.
Comes not the sound of torrents to thine ear
From the savannah land, the land of streams?
Hear’st thou not murmurs which none else may hear?
Is not the forest’s shadow on thy dreams?
They call—wild voices call thee o’er the main,
Back to thy free and boundless woods again.
Hear them not! hear them not!—thou canst not find
In the far wilderness what once was thine!
Thou hast quaff’d knowledge from the founts of mind,
And gather’d loftier aims and hopes divine.
Thou know’st the soaring thought, the immortal strain—
Seek not the deserts and the woods again!

STANZAS TO THE MEMORY OF * * *

In the full tide of melody and mirth,
While joy’s bright spirit beams from every eye,
Forget not him, whose soul, though fled from earth,
Seems yet to speak in strains that cannot die.
Forget him not, for many a festal hour,
Charm’d by those strains, for us has lightly flown:
And memory’s visions, mingling with their power,
Wake the heart’s thrill at each familiar tone.
Blest be the harmonist, whose well-known lays
Revive life’s morning dreams, when youth is fled,
And, fraught with images of other days,
Recall the loved, the absent, and the dead.
His the dear art whose spells awhile renew
Hope’s first illusions in their tenderest bloom—
Oh! what were life, unless such moments threw
Bright gleams, “like angel visits,” o’er its gloom?

THE VAUDOIS VALLEYS.

Yes! thou hast met the sun’s last smile
From the haunted hills of Rome;
By many a bright Ægean isle
Thou hast seen the billows foam.
From the silence of the Pyramid,
Thou hast watch’d the solemn flow
Of the Nile, that with its waters hid
The ancient realm below.
Thy heart hath burn’d, as shepherds sung
Some wild and warlike strain,
Where the Moorish horn once proudly rung
Through the pealing hills of Spain.
And o’er the lonely Grecian streams
Thou hast heard the laurels moan,
With a sound yet murmuring in thy dreams
Of the glory that is gone.
But go thou to the pastoral vales
Of the Alpine mountains old,
If thou wouldst hear immortal tales
By the wind’s deep whispers told!
Go, if thou lovest the soil to tread
Where man hath nobly striven,
And life, like incense, hath been shed,
An offering unto heaven.
For o’er the snows, and round the pines,
Hath swept a noble flood;
The nurture of the peasant’s vines
Hath been the martyr’s blood!
A spirit, stronger than the sword,
And loftier than despair,
Through all the heroic region pour’d,
Breathes in the generous air.
A memory clings to every steep
Of long-enduring faith,
And the sounding streams glad record keep
Of courage unto death.
Ask of the peasant where his sires
For truth and freedom bled?
Ask, where were lit the torturing fires,
Where lay the holy dead!
And he will tell thee, all around,
On fount, and turf, and stone,
Far as the chamois’ foot can bound,
Their ashes have been sown!
Go, when the Sabbath-bell is heard[324]
Up through the wilds to float,
When the dark old woods and caves are stirr’d
To gladness by the note;
When forth, along their thousand rills,
The mountain people come,
Join thou their worship on those hills
Of glorious martyrdom.
And while the song of praise ascends,
And while the torrent’s voice,
Like the swell of many an organ, blends,
Then let thy soul rejoice.
Rejoice, that human hearts, through scorn,
Through shame, through death, made strong,
Before the rocks and heavens have borne
Witness of God so long!

[324] See Gilly’s Researches among the Mountains of Piedmont, for an interesting account of a Sabbath-day among the upper regions of the Vaudois. The inhabitants of these Protestant valleys, who, like the Swiss, repair with their flocks and herds to the summit of the hills during the summer, are followed thither by their pastors, and at that season of the year assemble on that sacred day to worship in the open air.

SONG OF THE SPANISH WANDERER.

Pilgrim! oh say, hath thy cheek been fann’d
By the sweet winds of my sunny land?
Know’st thou the sound of its mountain pines?
And hast thou rested beneath its vines?
Hast thou heard the music still wandering by,
A thing of the breezes, in Spain’s blue sky,
Floating away o’er hill and heath,
With the myrtle’s whisper, the citron’s breath?
Then say, are there fairer vales than those
Where the warbling of fountains for ever flows?
Are there brighter flowers than mine own, which wave
O’er Moorish ruin and Christian grave?
O sunshine and song! they are lying far
By the streams that look to the western star;
My heart is fainting to hear once more
The water-voices of that sweet shore.
Many were they that have died for thee,
And brave, my Spain! though thou art not free;
But I call them blest—they have rent their chain—
They sleep in thy valleys, my sunny Spain!

THE CONTADINA.

WRITTEN FOR A PICTURE.

Not for the myrtle, and not for the vine,
Though its grape, like a gem, be the sunbeam’s shrine;
And not for the rich blue heaven that showers
Joy on thy spirit, like light on the flowers;
And not for the scent of the citron trees—
Fair peasant! I call thee not blest for these.
Not for the beauty spread over thy brow,
Though round thee a gleam, as of spring, it throw;
And not for the lustre that laughs from thine eye,
Like a dark stream’s flash to the sunny sky,
Though the south in its riches naught lovelier sees—
Fair peasant! I call thee not blest for these.
But for those breathing and loving things—
For the boy’s fond arm that around thee clings,
For the smiling cheek on thy lap that glows,
In the peace of a trusting child’s repose—
For the hearts whose home is thy gentle breast,
Oh! richly I call thee, and deeply blest!

TROUBADOUR SONG.

The warrior cross’d the ocean’s foam
For the stormy fields of war;
The maid was left in a smiling home
And a sunny land afar.
His voice was heard where javelin showers
Pour’d on the steel-clad line;
Her step was midst the summer flowers,
Her seat beneath the vine.
His shield was cleft, his lance was riven,
And the red blood stain’d his crest;
While she—the gentlest wind of heaven
Might scarcely fan her breast!
Yet a thousand arrows pass’d him by,
And again he cross’d the seas;
But she had died as roses die
That perish with a breeze—
As roses die, when the blast is come
For all things bright and fair:
There was death within the smiling home—
How had death found her there?

THE TREASURES OF THE DEEP.[325]

What hidest thou in thy treasure caves and cells,
Thou hollow-sounding and mysterious main?—
Pale glistening pearls, and rainbow-colour’d shells
Bright things which gleam unreck’d of, and in vain.
Keep, keep thy riches, melancholy sea!
We ask not such from thee.
Yet more, the depths have more! What wealth untold,
Far down, and shining through their stillness lies!
Thou hast the starry gems, the burning gold,
Won from ten thousand royal Argosies.—
Sweep o’er thy spoils, thou wild and wrathful main!
Earth claims not these again.
Yet more, the depths have more! Thy waves have roll’d
Above the cities of a world gone by!
Sand hath fill’d up the palaces of old,
Sea-weed o’ergrown the halls of revelry.—
Dash o’er them, ocean! in thy scornful play:
Man yields them to decay.
Yet more! the billows and the depths have more!
High hearts and brave are gather’d to thy breast!
They hear not now the booming waters roar,
The battle-thunders will not break their rest.—
Keep thy red gold and gems, thou stormy grave!
Give back the true and brave!
Give back the lost and lovely!—those for whom
The place was kept at board and hearth so long,
The prayer went up through midnight’s breathless gloom,
And the vain yearning woke midst festal song!
Hold fast thy buried isles, thy towers o’erthrown—
But all is not thine own.
To thee the love of woman hath gone down,
Dark flow thy tides o’er manhood’s noble head,
O’er youth’s bright locks, and beauty’s flowery crown:
Yet must thou hear a voice—Restore the dead!
Earth shall reclaim her precious things from thee!—
Restore the dead, thou sea!

[325] Originally introduced in the “Forest Sanctuary.”

[“The only public mention that I have made of Mrs Hemans,” says Mr Montgomery of Sheffield, in a letter regarding her, with which we have been favoured by that excellent man and distinguished poet, “was in a series of lectures on the principal British Poets, delivered at the Royal Institution from ten to twelve years ago. In one of these, having to notice very briefly the ‘Female Poets,’ I said, ‘Mrs Hemans, in many of her lyrics, has struck out a new and attractive style of mingling the picturesque and the sentimental with such grace and beauty that, in her best pieces, she is better than almost any poet of either sex in that sprightly, yet pathetic vein, which she has exercised.’ I gave ‘The Treasures of the Deep’ as an example; and, indeed, I know nothing in our language—of the kind and the character I mean—comparable with it, either in conception or execution, for wealth of thought, felicity of diction, and commanding address:—The Ocean summoned to give an account of all that it has been doing through six thousand years, and the answers dictated by the questioner, till all the secrets of the abyss are revealed in the light by which poetry alone, of the purest order, can discover them. The last stanza is a crown of glory to the perfect whole.”

We beg to remind the author of “The World before the Flood,” and “The Pelican Island,” that the lectures to which he alludes have never been published. They were flatteringly successful, both when delivered at the Royal Institution, and before the literary societies of several of the principal provincial towns of England; and could not fail being acceptable to the great reading public, as the recorded opinions concerning the leading poets of Great Britain of past and present times, deliberately formed by one of their own number, who has himself written so much and so well, and who, in popularity as a lyrist, has no superior among contemporaries.]

BRING FLOWERS.

Bring flowers, young flowers, for the festal board,
To wreath the cup ere the wine is pour’d!
Bring flowers! they are springing in wood and vale:
Their breath floats out on the southern gale,
And the touch of the sunbeam hath waked the rose,
To deck the hall where the bright wine flows.
Bring flowers to strew in the conqueror’s path!
He hath shaken thrones with his stormy wrath:
He comes with the spoils of nations back,
The vines lie crush’d in his chariot’s track,
The turf looks red where he won the day.
Bring flowers to die in the conqueror’s way!
Bring flowers to the captive’s lonely cell!
They have tales of the joyous woods to tell—
Of the free blue streams, and the glowing sky,
And the bright world shut from his languid eye;
They will bear him a thought of the sunny hours,
And the dream of his youth. Bring him flowers, wild flowers!
Bring flowers, fresh flowers, for the bride to wear!
They were born to blush in her shining hair.
She is leaving the home of her childhood’s mirth,
She hath bid farewell to her father’s hearth,
Her place is now by another’s side.
Bring flowers for the locks of the fair young bride!
Bring flowers, pale flowers, o’er the bier to shed,
A crown for the brow of the early dead!
For this through its leaves hath the white rose burst,
For this in the woods was the violet nursed!
Though they smile in vain for what once was ours,
They are love’s last gift. Bring ye flowers, pale flowers!
Bring flowers to the shrine where we kneel in prayer—
They are nature’s offering, their place is there!
They speak of hope to the fainting heart,
With a voice of promise they come and part,
They sleep in dust through the wintry hours,
They break forth in glory. Bring flowers, bright flowers!

THE CRUSADER’S RETURN.

“Alas! the mother that him bare,
If she had been in presence there,
In his wan cheeks and sunburnt hair
She had not known her child.”
Marmion.
Rest, pilgrim, rest! Thou’rt from the Syrian land,
Thou’rt from the wild and wondrous East, I know
By the long-wither’d palm-branch in thy hand,
And by the darkness of thy sunburnt brow.
Alas! the bright, the beautiful, who part
So full of hope, for that far country’s bourne!
Alas! the weary and the changed in heart,
And dimm’d in aspect, who like thee return!
Thou’rt faint—stay, rest thee from thy toils at last:
Through the high chestnuts lightly plays the breeze,
The stars gleam out, the Ave hour is past,
The sailor’s hymn hath died along the seas.
Thou’rt faint and worn—hear’st thou the fountain welling
By the gray pillars of yon ruin’d shrine?
Seest thou the dewy grapes before thee swelling?
—He that hath left me train’d that loaded vine!
He was a child when thus the bower he wove,
(Oh! hath a day fled since his childhood’s time?)
That I might sit and hear the sound I love,
Beneath its shade—the convent’s vesper-chime.
And sit thou there!—for he was gentle ever,
With his glad voice he would have welcomed thee,
And brought fresh fruits to cool thy parch’d lips’ fever.
There in his place thou’rt resting—where is he?
If I could hear that laughing voice again,
But once again! How oft it wanders by,
In the still hours, like some remember’d strain,
Troubling the heart with its wild melody!—
Thou hast seen much, tired pilgrim! hast thou seen
In that far land, the chosen land of yore,
A youth—my Guido—with the fiery mien
And the dark eye of this Italian shore?
The dark, clear, lightning eye! On heaven and earth
It smiled—as if man were not dust it smiled!
The very air seem’d kindling with his mirth,
And I—my heart grew young before my child!
My blessed child!—I had but him—yet he
Fill’d all my home even with o’erflowing joy,
Sweet laughter, and wild song, and footstep free.
Where is he now?—my pride, my flower, my boy!
His sunny childhood melted from my sight,
Like a spring dew-drop. Then his forehead wore
A prouder look—his eye a keener light:
I knew these woods might be his world no more!
He loved me—but he left me! Thus they go
Whom we have rear’d, watch’d, bless’d, too much adored!
He heard the trumpet of the Red Cross blow,
And bounded from me with his father’s sword!
Thou weep’st—I tremble! Thou hast seen the slain
Pressing a bloody turf—the young and fair,
With their pale beauty strewing o’er the plain
Where hosts have met: speak! answer!—was he there?
Oh! hath his smile departed? Could the grave
Shut o’er those bursts of bright and tameless glee?
No! I shall yet behold his dark locks wave!——
That look gives hope—I knew it could not be!
Still weep’st thou, wanderer? Some fond mother’s glance
O’er thee, too, brooded in thine early years—
Think’st thou of her, whose gentle eye, perchance,
Bathed all thy faded hair with parting tears?
Speak, for thy tears disturb me!—what art thou?
Why dost thou hide thy face, yet weeping on?
Look up! Oh! is it—that wan cheek and brow!—
Is it—alas! yet joy!—my son, my son!

THEKLA’S SONG; OR, THE VOICE OF A SPIRIT.

FROM THE GERMAN OF SCHILLER.

——“’Tis not merely
The human being’s pride that peoples space
With life and mystical predominance;
Since likewise for the stricken heart of love
This visible nature, and this common world,
Are all too narrow.”—Coleridge’s “Wallenstein.”

[This song is said to have been composed by Schiller in answer to the inquiries of a friend respecting the fate of Thekla, whose beautiful character is withdrawn from the tragedy of Wallenstein’s Death, after her resolution to visit the grave of her lover is made known.]

Ask’st thou my home?—my pathway wouldst thou know,
When from thine eye my floating shadow pass’d?
Was not my work fulfill’d and closed below?
Had I not lived and loved? My lot was cast.
Wouldst thou ask where the nightingale is gone,
That, melting into song her soul away,
Gave the spring-breeze what witch’d thee in its tone?
But while she loved, she lived, in that deep lay!
Think’st thou my heart its lost one hath not found?
Yes! we are one: oh! trust me, we have met,
Where naught again may part what love hath bound,
Where falls no tear, and whispers no regret.
There shalt thou find us, there with us be blest,
If, as our love, thy love is pure and true!
There dwells my father,[326] sinless and at rest,
Where the fierce murderer may no more pursue.
And well he feels, no error of the dust
Drew to the stars of heaven his mortal ken;
There it is with us even as is our trust—
He that believes is near the holy then.
There shall each feeling, beautiful and high,
Keep the sweet promise of its earthly day.
Oh! fear thou not to dream with waking eye!
There lies deep meaning oft in childish play.

[326] Wallenstein.

THE REVELLERS.

Ring, joyous chords!—ring out again!
A swifter, and a wilder strain!
They are here—the fair face and the careless heart,
And stars shall wane ere the mirthful part.——
But I met a dimly mournful glance,
In a sudden turn of the flying dance;
I heard the tone of a heavy sigh
In a pause of the thrilling melody!
And it is not well that woe should breathe
On the bright spring-flowers of the festal wreath!—
Ye that to thought or to grief belong,
Leave, leave the hall of song!
Ring, joyous chords!——But who art thou
With the shadowy locks o’er thy pale young brow,
And the world of dreamy gloom that lies
In the misty depths of thy soft dark eyes?
Thou hast loved, fair girl! thou hast loved too well!
Thou art mourning now o’er a broken spell;
Thou hast pour’d thy heart’s rich treasures forth,
And art unrepaid for their priceless worth!
Mourn on!—yet come thou not here the while,
It is but a pain to see thee smile!
There is not a tone in our songs for thee—
Home with thy sorrows flee!
Ring, joyous chords!—ring out again!——
But what dost thou with the revel’s train?
A silvery voice through the soft air floats,
But thou hast no part in the gladdening notes;
There are bright young faces that pass thee by,
But they fix no glance of thy wandering eye!
Away! there’s a void in thy yearning breast,
Thou weary man! wilt thou here find rest!
Away! for thy thoughts from the scene have fled,
And the love of thy spirit is with the dead:
Thou art but more lone midst the sounds of mirth—
Back to thy silent hearth!
Ring, joyous chords!—ring forth again!
A swifter still, and a wilder strain!——
But thou, though a reckless mien be thine,
And thy cup be crown’d with the foaming wine,
By the fitful bursts of thy laughter loud,
By thine eye’s quick flash through its troubled cloud,
I know thee! it is but the wakeful fear
Of a haunted bosom that brings thee here!
I know thee!—thou fearest the solemn night,
With her piercing stars and her deep wind’s might!
There’s a tone in her voice which thou fain wouldst shun,
For it asks what the secret soul hath done!
And thou—there’s a dark weight on thine—away!—
Back to thy home, and pray!
Ring, joyous chords!—ring out again!
A swifter still, and a wilder strain!
And bring fresh wreaths!—we will banish all
Save the free in heart from our festive hall.
On! through the maze of the fleet dance, on!—
But where are the young and the lovely gone?
Where are the brows with the Red Rose crown’d,
And the floating forms with the bright zone bound?
And the waving locks and the flying feet,
That still should be where the mirthful meet?—
They are gone—they are fled—they are parted all:
Alas! the forsaken hall!

THE CONQUEROR’S SLEEP.

Sleep midst thy banners furl’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 thee,
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, O 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, even 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.[327]

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;
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!