 | The ghost's entry and other poems |  |
122
HOME-BELLS IN THE DESERT
FROM AN INCIDENT DESCRIBED IN KINGLAKE'S ‘EOTHEN.’
Sweet Sabbath morn! The summer breeze
With English sunshine fills the trees
About the church-tower old,
Whose bells o'erflow the vale and steal
Through green, deep lanes, with gentle peal,
To many a home's dear fold. ...
With English sunshine fills the trees
About the church-tower old,
Whose bells o'erflow the vale and steal
Through green, deep lanes, with gentle peal,
To many a home's dear fold. ...
Through the dead sand, the boundless glare,
The blinding silence everywhere,
(He veiled from that fierce flame,)
They reached a wanderer's dream; awake,
Those bells the awe-filled silence break—
He hears them yet the same!
The blinding silence everywhere,
(He veiled from that fierce flame,)
They reached a wanderer's dream; awake,
Those bells the awe-filled silence break—
He hears them yet the same!
123
Enchantment! May a mother's prayer
Have breathed these wondrous travellers there—
Far chimes of mother-land—
To call her wanderer's worship home?
Oh, softly clear and close they come,
With Sabbath, o'er the sand!
Have breathed these wondrous travellers there—
Far chimes of mother-land—
To call her wanderer's worship home?
Oh, softly clear and close they come,
With Sabbath, o'er the sand!
Or may some flying dream have sent
Through Memory's passive instrument
A breath those chimes to start,
That, vibrant in the sunshine still,
The desert air with music fill,
And echo in his heart?
Through Memory's passive instrument
A breath those chimes to start,
That, vibrant in the sunshine still,
The desert air with music fill,
And echo in his heart?
He knows not, but, dream-like, he sees
That church-tower old, its clustered trees,
In far familiar air:—
'Tis Sabbath morn in mother-land:
Those home-bells make, through the hot sand,
Their gentle visit there!
That church-tower old, its clustered trees,
In far familiar air:—
'Tis Sabbath morn in mother-land:
Those home-bells make, through the hot sand,
Their gentle visit there!
124
What blissful vision he perceives!—
Through sunny liftings of the leaves,
White gleams and faces known:
Dear church-paths old: and one glad door
Opens—its rose's fragrance o'er
The desert's breath has blown!
Through sunny liftings of the leaves,
White gleams and faces known:
Dear church-paths old: and one glad door
Opens—its rose's fragrance o'er
The desert's breath has blown!
| The ghost's entry and other poems | |