University of Virginia Library

Sweet Astley bells! your distant chime,
So tuneful, yet so sad,
Recalls my childhood's earliest time:
I sigh, and yet am glad.

My thoughts return, on swift unsteady wings,
Along the trodden path whose misty light
Revealed dim visions of unspoken things,
Passing, yet bright.
Oh, years have glided by so fast,
That twenty-one have almost past,
And now those softened bells,
With wondrous spells,
Have called the solemn train of bygone times
Back from Eternity's mysterious chimes.
They come, a fearful crowd,
And gaze with spectral eyes;
Before this witness cloud
My spirit silent lies:
No sound is there, yet strange wild echoes thrill
The inmost caverns of my soul, where all seemed waste and still.

Scenes arise before me
Fairer than the light,
Visions hover o'er me
Darker than the night;
While my spirit haileth
Those with fond delight,
Yet at these it quaileth,
Shrouded in affright.
For the past years press me closer round,
And I cannot bear their gaze;
With a brazen fetter I am bound,
While their deep reproachful voices sound
And their piercing eyebeams blaze.
They speak of thoughtless words and wasted hours,
Of hopes forgotten, resolutions broken;
Their breath recalls once bright, now faded flowers,
Their tones bring back the words which sainted lips have spoken.
Again is heard that spirit-wakening bell;
Each stroke is branding deep my heavy heart,
Like some inevitable knell,
Saying, ‘Thou too must soon depart.’
And 'tis a knell! My youth is past,
That very chime hath told me so!
This year hath been the last, the last;
My spring is gone, I know!
The sound hath melted o'er the hill,
And all is still!
Again the peal is ringing,
Like angel voices singing,—
‘May there not be
A summer yet for thee?
Without the chilling frosts of spring,
Without the piercing wind,
Without the yet unclothèd spray,
These thou hast left behind!
What though the rainbow fade away?
The light which gave it birth
Is still the same; and e'en the cloud
May bless the thirsty earth.
What though the blossom fall and die?
The flower is not the root;
A summer's sun may ripen yet
The Master's pleasant fruit.
What though by many a sinful fall
Thy garments be defiled?
A Saviour's blood can cleanse them all;
Fear not, thou art His child!
Arise! to follow in His track,
His lowly ones to cheer;
And on an upward path, look back
With every brightening year.
Arise! and on thy future way
His blessing with thee be,
His presence be thy staff and stay
Till thou His glory see.
What though thy heart distrust thy strength?
The way may not be long,
And He will bring thee home at length
To learn His own new song.’

Sweet Astley bells! your distant chime,
So tuneful, though so sad,
Speaks of a holier, happier time:
I sigh, and yet am glad.