 | Poems |  |
93
THE PASSING BELL.
I
'Tis shut of eve; around me wave the flowers;The merry birds troll forth their vesper hymn,
Leaf-cradled safely in their dark green bowers;
The distant trees appear like shadows dim,
Marshalled along the twilight's starry brow,
To hear yon bell's sad sound, and, at each pause, to bow.
II
I hear the distant din of laughing boys,As home they journey bearing boughs of May;
Then comes the far-off city's ocean-noise,
Swelling and falling like the waves at play;
And on mine ear bursts loud above that hum,
Yon dull, dead, dreary bell's slow-swinging tomb-toned boom.
94
III
But who is dead?—nought here that tale can tell:The quiet kine around me silent lie,
The night-breeze creeps along each wild-flower's bell,
No more the bleating lambs bound lightly by;
The hawthorn-homes of lute-tongued birds are still,
While yon heart-chilling bell peals loudly o'er the hill.
IV
Is some old man torn tottering to the grave,Who seldom left his hearth, but sat in gloom,
Watching the swinging pend'lum's measured wave,
Counting those strokes that nearer brought the tomb,
Who had seen threescore Springs, for aye now past,
Yet never once had thought, the next might be his last?
V
Or some poor pauper kept on niggard pay,Scarce clothed or fed while he on earth did stir;
Who'll to the grave with speed be borne away,
95
Down the cold earth they'll drop his wide-chinked bier,
No pause, no sigh, no friend to shed a farewell tear!
VI
Or some fair maid who oft had thought of Spring,And gazed with hope upon the wintry sky;
Oft heard in fancy the first blackbird sing,
And saw imagined flowers around her lie;
Thought of green walks, and morning's rosy breath,
Nor deemed thus soon she'd fall a prey to hungry Death?
VII
Perchance some youth had won her heart to love,And she had smiled when sunny days drew near,
And sighed for green-arched woods, where cooed the dove,
Answered by falling waters cool and clear;
Had seen the virgin primrose angel-eyed,
And when the pale flower droop'd, her beauty with it died.
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VIII
Might not that bell have flung its death-cold pealUpon her ear before the spirit fled?
Causing a tremor o'er her limbs to steal:
How would she gaze on those around her bed!
Grave-shouting bell! thy sound would on her rest
Like pitchy darkness dropped on noon-day's sun-lit breast.
IX
Oh! it is hard to die when the young treesBurst forth in beauty with their emerald buds,—
When the first blossoms tremble to the breeze,
And bird to bird calls through the flowery woods,
When silvery clouds sail o'er the sleeping wave,—
Oh! it is hard to lie deep in the silent grave.
X
Deep in the grave, far, far, beneath the flowers,From shady lanes, and walks with those we love—
Those whose light feet still dance in leaf-roofed bowers;
97
The glens, and glades, and dells where violets bloom:
All these to be exchanged for the cold, voiceless tomb.
XI
To be pent up within a narrow cell,With damps, and coffin-worms, and silent Death,
Where not one ray of light can ever dwell,
And if we wake, no air to give us breath;
Year after year to lie 'neath that gray tower,
From whence the watchman, Time, looks out, and calls the hour.
XII
To-day a thousand forms walked forth in white,A thousand feet did thread the mazy dance,
A thousand eyes beamed blue, and soft, and bright,
And in the ring did lip to lip advance.
Even now I hear the dancers' gaily bound,
While I am here alone, listening to yon sad sound.
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XIII
Alone! alone!—why should I wish them sad?Time hurries on his brow deep wrapt in gloom.
Brief is the sunny beam that makes us glad:
'Tis but the ray that glances on the tomb,
Mocking its depths with transitory light,
Then vanishing away in deep, eternal night.
XIV
Hush! voice of death! thou makest my blood run cold;The very wind seems frightened as it blows,
And the dark earth a grave, but made to hold
All it contains; the darkness darker grows
And warns me home, awhile to rest my head,
Then join the unbroken sleep, amid the silent dead.
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