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THE PASSING-BELL.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 


204

THE PASSING-BELL.

Mark how the bell doth toll,
One—two—and three—
Like thee, a bodiless soul,
Soon all shall be.
And wherefore should we mourn,
That this dull frame
Will to the dust return,
From whence it came?
Oft, though weary and old,
It would not rest—
But struggles hard to hold
The eternal guest.
It loves the pleasant earth,
From which 'twas made;
Still clings to care and mirth,
Sunshine and shade.
Yet in a little while,
(Full well I wis,)
How calmly we shall smile
Upon all this!

205

And looking down, perchance,
May, half in mirth
Yet half in pity, glance
On this poor earth—
When Sorrows, one by one,
Have all descended—
When the last task is done,
The last pang ended.
And all these wondrous joys,
These woful fears,
Shall seem like children's toys,
Like children's tears.