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(SONG OF THE CHURCH-BELL.)
Come to me, come to me, you who are sad and lone,
You who knew sorrows of others, that now have become your own;
You who greet only by memory the friends you once have known,
You who are walking desolate, tortured by thorns of care,
Come to the house of prayer.
You who knew sorrows of others, that now have become your own;
You who greet only by memory the friends you once have known,
You who are walking desolate, tortured by thorns of care,
Come to the house of prayer.
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Come to me, come to me, you who in pleasures bright
Drown the gold hours of morning, or the sweet shades of night;
Oh, you will feel for my presence when trouble encumbers sight!
Joy is the mother of sorrow: pleasures can breed despair:
Then there is wailing and prayer.
Drown the gold hours of morning, or the sweet shades of night;
Oh, you will feel for my presence when trouble encumbers sight!
Joy is the mother of sorrow: pleasures can breed despair:
Then there is wailing and prayer.
Come to me—come to me—you who helpless-wise,
May be unable to come in the fragile body's guise:
It is the spirit that clambers into the towering skies.
So though bodies be prisoned, yet souls in Heaven may share:
Come to the house of prayer.
May be unable to come in the fragile body's guise:
It is the spirit that clambers into the towering skies.
So though bodies be prisoned, yet souls in Heaven may share:
Come to the house of prayer.
Come to me, come to me, you who can only agree
In the great lessons of Nature, with what yourselves can see;
Pray as you live—to the Unknown!—for all that is yet to be—
All that has been—has been given Mystery's garment to wear:
Mystery's even in prayer!
In the great lessons of Nature, with what yourselves can see;
Pray as you live—to the Unknown!—for all that is yet to be—
All that has been—has been given Mystery's garment to wear:
Mystery's even in prayer!
Come to me—come to me—you who diversely believe!
Many the doctrines and fancies that different natures weave;
Many the rafters to which their hopes of mercy cleave.
Heaven's great dome of splendor is reached by many a stair;
Come to the house of prayer!
Many the doctrines and fancies that different natures weave;
Many the rafters to which their hopes of mercy cleave.
Heaven's great dome of splendor is reached by many a stair;
Come to the house of prayer!
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Pray with me, pray with me, you who in toil are bowed,
You who are striving and grieving alone in a sneering crowd;
Maybe the lower they crush you, the higher the strength allowed.
Look to the sky above you—look to Heaven—it is there:
Come to the house of prayer!
You who are striving and grieving alone in a sneering crowd;
Maybe the lower they crush you, the higher the strength allowed.
Look to the sky above you—look to Heaven—it is there:
Come to the house of prayer!
Away again!—through the blinding storm,
Our train is pushing its massive form:
Through night—the beautiful wreck of day—
Our engine valiantly fights its way.
But still we could feel and could but know,
That time, unhindered by gale and snow,
Was star of the race, had won first place,
And we were weakening in the chase.
Our speed grew labored: we felt the strain
That clogged the engine; and all in vain
It strove to compass our journey's need,
And match with un-wintered days for speed.
The heave of its mighty breath we heard—
We felt the touch of its iron heart's throb;
Its hoarse voice sounding a warning word,
Seemed sometimes wavering like a sob;
But nought of a sound that the world appals
Came to us within our windowed walls.
The lights were gleaming as gaily as ever
In opulent city—'neath palace-domes
Whence thrifty courtiers, discreet and clever,
Make rich their tables and gild their homes;
Trained trainmen, loitering up and down,
Were ready to hail each coming town;
An old conductor, of oft-proved worth,
With stripes on his coat-sleeve three and five,
Had travelled the iron road back and forth
For forty years, and was still alive,
And answered, with look of droll despair,
The questions fired him from here and there;
Trim waiters with viands hove in sight—
Their faces black as their aprons white;
A dining-hall flung banners about,
As snowy as any field without;
With savory odors, half the night,
Olfactories aided the appetite;
In book-shelves swaying, the silent tongue
Of literature was deftly hung;
On our foundation of wheels there rose
A temple of vapor-clouds, where those
On worship of Nicotina bent,
Smoke-dried themselves to their hearts' content;
Well-curtained chambers provided place
For those who would dream through miles of space;
Good cushions waited the many there be
Who think that slumbering should be free;
And warm glad comfort was speeding through
As fierce a storm as the world oft knew.
Our train is pushing its massive form:
Through night—the beautiful wreck of day—
Our engine valiantly fights its way.
But still we could feel and could but know,
That time, unhindered by gale and snow,
Was star of the race, had won first place,
And we were weakening in the chase.
Our speed grew labored: we felt the strain
That clogged the engine; and all in vain
It strove to compass our journey's need,
And match with un-wintered days for speed.
The heave of its mighty breath we heard—
We felt the touch of its iron heart's throb;
Its hoarse voice sounding a warning word,
Seemed sometimes wavering like a sob;
But nought of a sound that the world appals
Came to us within our windowed walls.
The lights were gleaming as gaily as ever
In opulent city—'neath palace-domes
Whence thrifty courtiers, discreet and clever,
Make rich their tables and gild their homes;
13
Were ready to hail each coming town;
An old conductor, of oft-proved worth,
With stripes on his coat-sleeve three and five,
Had travelled the iron road back and forth
For forty years, and was still alive,
And answered, with look of droll despair,
The questions fired him from here and there;
Trim waiters with viands hove in sight—
Their faces black as their aprons white;
A dining-hall flung banners about,
As snowy as any field without;
With savory odors, half the night,
Olfactories aided the appetite;
In book-shelves swaying, the silent tongue
Of literature was deftly hung;
On our foundation of wheels there rose
A temple of vapor-clouds, where those
On worship of Nicotina bent,
Smoke-dried themselves to their hearts' content;
Well-curtained chambers provided place
For those who would dream through miles of space;
Good cushions waited the many there be
Who think that slumbering should be free;
And warm glad comfort was speeding through
As fierce a storm as the world oft knew.
Now riding along these desolate ways,
There rose a vision of summer days,
When green leaves fluttered in zephyred hours,
And roads were walled with the vines and flowers.
And thoughts from each other so diverse,
To join together for better or worse,
In moments of contemplation are,
That I sang
There rose a vision of summer days,
When green leaves fluttered in zephyred hours,
And roads were walled with the vines and flowers.
And thoughts from each other so diverse,
To join together for better or worse,
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That I sang
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