BY MRS. HEMANS. FOUNT of the woods! thou art hid no more Fount of the vale! thou art sought no more And the woodman seeks thee not in vain Fount of the Virgin's ruined shrine ! It mingles the tone of a thoughtful sigh, With the notes that ring through the laughing sky; To the brilliant sunshine sparkling free? -'Tis that all on earth is of Time's domain He hath made thee nature's own again! * 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 chapel with ages grey! Thou art springing freshly amidst decay! In man's deep spirit of old hath wrought; THE DIRGE OF WALLACE. BY THOMAS CAMPBELL, ESQ. THEY lighted a taper at dead of night, And chaunted their holiest hymn; But her brow and her bosom were damp with affrightHer eye was all sleepless and dim! And the Lady of Elderslie wept for her lord, When a death-watch beat in her lonely room, When her curtain had shook of its own accord, And the raven had flapped at her window-board, To tell of her warrior's doom! Now sing ye the death-song, and loudly pray For nightmare rides on my strangled sleep : Yet knew not his country that ominous hour, That a trumpet of death on an English tower Oh, it was not thus when his oaken spear And hosts of a thousand were scattered like deer, When he strode on the wreck of each well-fought field, Yet bleeding and bound, though the Wallace wight The bugle ne'er sung to a braver knight Than William of Elderslie! But the day of his glory shall never depart; His head, unentombed, shall with glory be palmed; From its blood-streaming altar his spirit shall start; Though the raven has fed on his mouldering heart, A nobler was never embalmed! ANNA'S GRAVE. BY WILLIAM GIFFORD, ESQ. I wish I was where Anna lies, Go and partake her humble bier. I wish I could! for when she died I lost my all; and life has proved But who, when I am turned to clay, And pluck the ragged moss away, And weeds that have no business there? And who with pious hands shall bring The flowers she cherished, snow-drops cold, And violets that unheeded spring, To scatter o'er her hallowed mould? And who, while memory loves to dwell I did it; and would fate allow, Would visit still, would still deploreBut health and strength have left me now, And I, alas! can weep no more. Take then, sweet maid! this simple strain, Thy grave must then undecked remain, And can thy soft, persuasive look, Thy spirits, frolicsome as good, Perhaps but sorrow dims my eye: Cold turf, which I no more must view, AN EVENING SKETCH. BY D. M. MOIR. THE songsters of the groves have ceased their song, All, save the blackcap, that, amid the boughs Of yonder ash tree, from his mellow throat, In adoration of the setting sun, Chaunts forth his evening hymn.-'Tis twilight now; Are slumbering through their multitude of boughs; |