 | The bells |  |
9
PROEM.
I. THE CHRISTENING.
I've christened these, my poesies, THE BELLS,
Because there is, or should be, in all rhymes,
A music soft and silv'ry as the chimes
That float at evening through the twilight dells,
Born in the belfry of some village church,
Hid by the ivy clamb'ring from its porch.
Because there is, or should be, in all rhymes,
A music soft and silv'ry as the chimes
That float at evening through the twilight dells,
Born in the belfry of some village church,
Hid by the ivy clamb'ring from its porch.
Because some verses have a solemn roll,
Sweetly sad, a melancholy swelling,
Like the deep bells of a cathedral, telling
The sad departure of another Soul
For the Eternal City! that far shore,
Where, like a sea, Time breaketh evermore!
Sweetly sad, a melancholy swelling,
Like the deep bells of a cathedral, telling
The sad departure of another Soul
For the Eternal City! that far shore,
Where, like a sea, Time breaketh evermore!
10
Because in Bells there something is to me
Of rhythms and the poets of gone years—
A sad reverberation, breeding tears,
Touching the finer chords of memory!
Bells be the name! may their vibrations clear,
Fall in mild cadences upon thine ear!
Of rhythms and the poets of gone years—
A sad reverberation, breeding tears,
Touching the finer chords of memory!
Bells be the name! may their vibrations clear,
Fall in mild cadences upon thine ear!
II. TO MY FRIENDS.
Ye friends that gild my humbler way!
Ye stars that brighten year by year!
I know your hearts are with him here
Who seeks to tread a wider sphere;
I know the words that ye would say.
Ye stars that brighten year by year!
I know your hearts are with him here
Who seeks to tread a wider sphere;
I know the words that ye would say.
And thou, O friend! I have not seen!
Whose hand has never grasped my own,
Whose ear has never caught a tone
From lips of mine, to whom I'm known
In thoughts, and not by form or mien;
Whose hand has never grasped my own,
Whose ear has never caught a tone
From lips of mine, to whom I'm known
In thoughts, and not by form or mien;
May I not hope some passing tone
May start thy sleeping memory,
May bring some clouded joy to thee?
'Twere sweet to know, though strangers we,
Thy heart is chiming with my own!
May start thy sleeping memory,
May bring some clouded joy to thee?
'Twere sweet to know, though strangers we,
Thy heart is chiming with my own!
| The bells | |