Flower o' the thorn A book of wayside verse: By John Payne |
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BELLS AT DAWN. |
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 | Flower o' the thorn |  |
75
BELLS AT DAWN.
THE pealing bell proclaims the coming dawn of day.
Though hidden is Heaven's face behind the close cloud-rack
And not a vein of blue relieves the vault of black,
Yonder in the belfry grim the great bells swing and sway.
“The morning's here: 'tis time to wake and work!” they say.
Each over other climbs and clamours and falls back,
The shrill harmonic tribe still humming in their track,
Like giant bees engaged in elephantine play.
Though hidden is Heaven's face behind the close cloud-rack
And not a vein of blue relieves the vault of black,
Yonder in the belfry grim the great bells swing and sway.
“The morning's here: 'tis time to wake and work!” they say.
Each over other climbs and clamours and falls back,
The shrill harmonic tribe still humming in their track,
Like giant bees engaged in elephantine play.
Relic of barbarous times, when humankind forlorn
Beneath Faith's tyrant thrall to bend the neck was fain,
The jarring jangle mars the calm of coming morn,
Enforcing the sad sense, that else to sleep were fain,
Awake and all the chords of the reluctant brain
The weary rhythm keep of rites and creeds outworn.
Beneath Faith's tyrant thrall to bend the neck was fain,
The jarring jangle mars the calm of coming morn,
Enforcing the sad sense, that else to sleep were fain,
Awake and all the chords of the reluctant brain
The weary rhythm keep of rites and creeds outworn.
| Flower o' the thorn | |