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 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, 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, The green woods of their native land Shall whisper in the strain, The voices of their household band 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, 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. They lower'd him, with the sound Of requiems, to repose, When from the throngs around A solemn voice arose : "Forbear, forbear!" it cried, "In the holiest name forbear! He hath conquer'd regions wide, But he shall not slumber there. 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? "The tree before him fell Which we cherish'd many a year, But its deep root yet shall swell And heave against his bier. "Here each proud column's bed Hath been wet by weeping eyes,— Hence! and bestow your dead Where no wrong against him cries!" Shame glow'd on each dark face Of those proud and steel-girt men, And they bought with gold a place A little earth for him Whose banner flew so far! And a peasant's tale could dim The name, a nation's star! |