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 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.

122

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.

66

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?