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BY MRS. HEMANS.

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 swayed 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 ruined 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!

* 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!
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 chastened heart, to Heaven,
Be the spot still hallowed while Time shall reign,
Who hath made thee nature's own again!

New Monthly Magazine.

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 affright— Her 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 the soul of my knight so dear;
And call me a widow this wretched day,
Since the warning of God is here;
For nightmare rides on my strangled sleep :
The lord of my bosom is doomed to die;
His valorous heart they have wounded deep;
And the blood-red tears shall his country weep
For Wallace of Elderslie!

Yet knew not his country that ominous hour,
Ere the loud matin-bell was rung,

That a trumpet of death on an English tower
Had the dirge of her champion sung!
When his dungeon-light looked dim and red
On the high-born blood of a martyr slain,
No anthem was sung at his holy death-bed;
No weeping there was when his bosom bled—
And his heart was rent in twain!

Oh, it was not thus when his oaken spear
Was true to that knight forlorn,

And hosts of a thousand were scattered like deer,
At the blast of the hunter's horn;

When he strode on the wreck of each well-fought field,
With the yellow-haired chiefs of his native land;
For his lance was not shivered on helmet or shield-
And the sword that seemed fit for archangel to wield
Was light in his terrible hand!

Yet bleeding and bound, though the Wallace wight
For his long-loved country die,

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,
For I am sick of lingering here;
And every hour affection cries,

Go and partake her humble bier.

I wish I could! for when she died

I lost my all; and life has proved
Since that sad hour a dreary void,
A waste unlovely, and unloved,

But who, when I am turned to clay,
Shall duly to her grave repair,

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
Upon her name for ever dear,
Shall feel his heart with passion swell,
And pour the bitter, bitter tear?

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,
The last I offer at thy shrine;
Thy grave must then undecked remain,

And all thy memory fade with mine.

And can thy soft, persuasive look,
Thy voice that might with music vie,
Thy air, that every gazer took,
Thy matchless eloquence of eye;

Thy spirits, frolicsome as good,
Thy courage, by no ills dismayed,
Thy patience, by no wrongs subdued,
Thy gay good-humour-can they fade?

Perhaps

but sorrow dims my eye:

Cold turf, which I no more must view,
Dear name, which I no more must sigh,
A long, a last, a sad adieu!

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;
The sovereign sun behind his western hills

In glory hath declined. The mighty clouds,
Kissed by his warm effulgence, hang around
In all their congregated hues of pride,

Like pillars of some tabernacle grand,
Worthy his glowing presence; while the sky
Illumined to its centre, glows intense,
Changing its sapphire majesty to gold.
How deep is the tranquillity! the trees

Are slumbering through their multitude of boughs;
Even to the leaflet on the frailest twig!

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