Or where the shadows of dark solemn yews
Brood silently o'er some lone burial-ground,
Thy verse hath power that brightly might diffuse
A breath, a kindling, as of spring, around,
From its own glow of hope and courage high,
And steadfast faith's victorious constancy.

True bard and holy !-thou art e'en as one
Who, by some secret gift of soul or eye,
In every spot beneath the smiling sun,

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,

The deep, slow curfew's chime!
A heavy sound unto hall and bower,
In England's olden time!

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
In his children's eyes make light.

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,
Might guide him as a star.

And woe for him, whose wakeful soul,

With lone aspirings fill'd,

Would have liv'd o'er some immortal scroll, While the sounds of earth were still'd.

And yet a deeper woe,

For the watchers by the bed,

Where the fondly lov'd, in pain lay low,
And rest forsook the head.

For the mother, doom'd unseen to keep
By the dying babe her place,

And to feel its flitting pulse, and weep,
Yet not behold its face!

Darkness, in chieftain's hall!

Darkness, in peasant's cot!

While Freedom, under that shadowy pall,

Sat mourning o'er her lot.

Oh! the fireside's peace we well may prize,

For blood hath flow'd like rain, Pour'd forth to make sweet sanctuaries Of England's homes again!

Heap the yule-faggots high,

Till the red light fills the room!

It is home's own hour, when the stormy sky Grows thick with evening gloom.

Gather ye round the holy hearth,

And by its gladdening blaze,

Unto thankful bliss we will change our mirth, With a thought of the olden days.

HYMN FOR CHRISTMAS.

OH! lovely voices of the sky

Which hymn'd the Saviour's birth,

Are ye not singing still on high,
Ye that sang, "Peace on earth"?
To us yet speak the strains

Wherewith, in time gone by,

Ye bless'd the Syrian swains,
Oh! voices of the sky!

Oh! clear and shining light, whose beams That hour Heaven's glory shed, Around the palms, and o'er the streams,

And on the shepherd's head.

Be near, through life and death,

As in that holiest night

Of hope, and joy, and faith

Oh! clear and shining light!