The Cathedral, or the Catholic and Apostolic Church in England Second edition [by Isaac Williams] |
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DISTANT CHURCH BELLS. |
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 | The Cathedral, or the Catholic and Apostolic Church in England |  |
189
DISTANT CHURCH BELLS.
Up steeps reclining in th'Autumnal calm,
The woodland nook retir'd, and quiet field
Upon the tranquil noon
The Sunday chime is borne;
The woodland nook retir'd, and quiet field
Upon the tranquil noon
The Sunday chime is borne;
Rising and sinking on the silent air,
With many a dying fall most musical,
And fitful bird hard by
Blending harmoniously.
With many a dying fall most musical,
And fitful bird hard by
Blending harmoniously.
The Moon is looking on the sunny earth;
The little fleecy cloud stands still in Heav'n,
Making the blue expanse
More still and beautiful.
The little fleecy cloud stands still in Heav'n,
Making the blue expanse
More still and beautiful.
If ought there be upon this rude bad earth,
Which Angels from their happy spheres above
Could lean and listen to,
It were those peaceful sounds.
Which Angels from their happy spheres above
Could lean and listen to,
It were those peaceful sounds.
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There is unearthly balm upon the air,
And holier lights which are with Sunday born,
That man may lay aside
Himself, and be at rest.
And holier lights which are with Sunday born,
That man may lay aside
Himself, and be at rest.
The week-day cares, like shackles, from us fall,
As from our Lord the clothings of the grave;
And we too seem with Him
To walk in endless morn.
As from our Lord the clothings of the grave;
And we too seem with Him
To walk in endless morn.
Not that these musical wings would bear us up,
On buoyant thoughts too high for sinful man,
But that they speak the best
Which earth hath left to give,
On buoyant thoughts too high for sinful man,
But that they speak the best
Which earth hath left to give,
Of better hopes, and prayer, and penitence,
Rising in incense on the sacred air
From many a woodland spire,
Or hill-embosom'd tower;—
Rising in incense on the sacred air
From many a woodland spire,
Or hill-embosom'd tower;—
That sadness, and privation, and earth's loss
In the great sea of goodness are forgot,
And sense of stern decay
Is lost in sweet repose.
In the great sea of goodness are forgot,
And sense of stern decay
Is lost in sweet repose.
So deep are all things stamp'd with vanity,
So fading, and so fleeting, and so frail,—
And we too, while we speak,
Dropping ourselves away,—
So fading, and so fleeting, and so frail,—
And we too, while we speak,
Dropping ourselves away,—
191
That envy, and unkindness, and revenge
In very pity for themselves might weep,
Coping with a poor shade,
With real sad unrest.
In very pity for themselves might weep,
Coping with a poor shade,
With real sad unrest.
It may be that our hopes may be deceiv'd,
And we found wanting; yet a little while
We 'gainst ourselves will hope,
And against hope rejoice.
And we found wanting; yet a little while
We 'gainst ourselves will hope,
And against hope rejoice.
For earth hath nothing else found worth our care,
And if we lose her all, we nothing lose,
So poor while it remain'd,
And so short-lived when gone!
And if we lose her all, we nothing lose,
So poor while it remain'd,
And so short-lived when gone!
But if we are beguil'd by her false charms,
By her enthralling ways and prospects fair,
Her promises of good
The shadow of a shade,
By her enthralling ways and prospects fair,
Her promises of good
The shadow of a shade,
Fleeting behind to-morrow—on—and on—
If we, by her vain impotence beguil'd,
Lose our great being's end—
We are beguil'd indeed!
If we, by her vain impotence beguil'd,
Lose our great being's end—
We are beguil'd indeed!
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