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With mattock and with spade
Ye dare to break my rest;
The pious mound is all unmade

My clan had counted blest:
Take, take my buckler's boss,

My sword, and spear, and chain,-
Steal all ye can of this world's dross
But-rest my bones again!

I know your modern boast

Is light, and learning's spread,-
Learn of a Celt to show them most
In honour to the Dead!

Farley Beath,

NEAR GUILDFORD, SURREY.

Many a day have I whiled away
Upon hopeful Farley-heath,
In its antique soil digging for spoil
Of possible treasure beneath;

For celts, and querns, and funereal urns,

And rich red Samian ware,

And sculptured stones, and centurions' bones

May all lie buried there!

How calmly serene, and glad have I been

From morn till eve to stay,

With Surrey serfs turning the turfs

The happy livelong day;

With eye still bright, and hope yet alight,
Wistfully watching the mould

As the spade brings up fragments of things
Fifteen centuries old!

Pleasant and rare it was to be there

On a joyous day of June,

With the circling scene all gay and green

Steep'd in the silent noon;

When beauty distils from the calm glad hills,-
From the downs and dimpling vales;
And every grove, lazy with love,
Whispereth tenderest tales!

O then to look back upon Time's old track
And dream of the days long past,
When Rome leant here on his sentinel spear
And loud was the clarion's blast-
As wild and shrill from Martyrs'-hill
Echoed the patriot-shout,

Or rush'd pell-mell with a midnight yell
The rude barbarian rout!

Yes; every stone has a tale of its own,

A volume of old lore;

And this white sand from many a brand

Has polish'd gouts of gore;

When Holmbury-height had its beacon light,

And Cantii held old Leith,

And Rome stood then with his iron men

On ancient Farley-heath!

How many a group of that exiled troop
Have here sung songs of home,
Chaunting aloud to a wondering crowd
The glories of old Rome!

Or lying at length have bask'd their strength
Amid this heather and gorse,

Or down by the well in the larch-grown dell
Water'd the black war-horse!

Look, look! my day-dream right ready would seem The past with the present to join,—

For see! I have found in this rare ground

An eloquent green old coin,

With turquoise rust on its Emperor's bust

Some Cæsar, august Lord,

And the legend terse, and the classic reverse, "Victory, valour's reward!"

Victory,-yes! and happiness,

Kind comrade, to me and to you,

When such rich spoil has crown'd our toil

And proved the day-dream true;

With hearty acclaim how we hail'd by his name

The Cæsar of that coin,

And told with a shout his titles out

And drank his health in wine!

And then how blest the noon-day rest
Reclined on a grassy bank,

With hungry cheer and the brave old beer
Better than Odin drank;

And the secret balm of the spirit at calm,
And poetry, hope, and health,-

Aye, have I not found in that rare ground
A mine of more than wealth!

Wisdom.

It is the way we go, the way of life;
A drop of pleasure in a sea of pain,
A grain of peace amid a load of strife,

With toil and grief, and grief and toil again:
Yea-but for this; the firm and faithful breast,
Bolder than lions, confident and strong,

That never doubts its birthright to be blest,
And dreads no evil while it does no wrong:
This, this is wisdom, manful and serene,
Towards GOD all penitence and prayer and trust,
But to the troubles of this shifting scene
Simply courageous and sublimely just :
Be then such wisdom thine, my heart within,—
There is no foe nor woe nor grief but—Sin.

The Beart's Busbaud.

FOR MUSIC.

Go, leave me to weep for the years that are past,

For my youth, and its friends, and its pleasures all dead, My spring and my summer are fading too fast,

And I long to live over the days that are fled;

It is not for sorrows or sins on my track

That I mournfully cast my fond yearnings behind,-Ah no,-from affection I love to look back,

It is only my Heart that has wedded my Mind.

And still, let the Mind that has married a Heart,
Though loving, be strong as a King in his pride,
And ever command that all weakness depart

From the realm that he rules in the soul of his bride;
For what, if all time and all pleasures decay?
My Mind is myself, an invincible chief,-

Like a child's broken toys are the years past away, And my Heart half-ashamed has forgotten her grief.

Prophets.

Prophets at home,-I smile to note your wrongs;
How scantly praised at each ancestral hearth
Are ye, caress'd by million hearts and tongues,
And full of honours over half the earth:
O petty jealousies and paltry strife!!

The little minds that chronicle a birth
Stood once for teachers in the task of life;
But, as the child of genius grew apace,

Dismay'd at his gigantie lineaments, They fear'd to find his glory their disgrace, His mind their master: so their worldly aim

Was still to vex him with discouragements, To check the spring-tide budding of his fame, And keep it down, to save themselves a name.

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