THE PEAL OF BELLS.

Southland Times, Volume III, Issue 219, 21 February 1866, Page 3

THE PEAL OF BELLS.

In olden times, beside the Rhine, There dwelt an artisan, who wrought A peal of bells, and made them take Sweet echoes from his thought. So soft, so musical they were, . So touched with thoughts of other years, The voiceless air grew eloquent To melt the heart to tears. And where the convent crowns the crag That rises from the vine-clad dells, And reddens to the summer dawns. They hung that peal of bells. And, when the frozen breath of morn Still wreathed the convent and its trees, Their silver octaves, note by note, They loosened on the breeze. And, when the eve had hushed the dells. ■ And lowing kine did home repair A benediction soft and low They breathed along the air. And he who wrought them built hard by A lowly cot wherin to dwell, That he might hear at morn and eve The bells he loved so well. Ere long, her head upon his breast, With blissful tears the sweet eyes dim, ' A fair maid listens at evensong To those clear bells, with him. And soon glad children's voices blend With them, mirth that no cares destroy ; Dear chimes, that to a father's heart Ring back his childhood's joy. And thus, with those he loved on earth, i He lived calm days with blessings fraughtDays that in music swan-like die, Wept by the bells he wrought. j Till in his absence came a foe, Who that fair convent overthrew, And bore away the peals of bells, — TTir wife and children slew. Nor groan, nor murmer uttered he, But straight the pilgrim's staff he took; To alien countries bent his way, His home, his land forsook. He wandered east, he wandered west, Crazed by a sleepless, inward woe — ■ A poor, heart-broken, homeless thing — With feeble steps and slow ; Until it chanced green Erin's shore He reached, and down the Shanon's tide, One still and balmly summer eve, Past Limerick's towers did glide. Then suddenly the vesper chimes Came on the breeze in fitful Bwells ; He knows their voice— they are, they are His own beloved bells ! Folding his arms upon his breast, His head a little drooped the while, He listened — all the woe-worn face Lit by a quiet smile. Old scenes, old forms, old friends crowd in Upon his brain from happier times. And little children's laughter low Rings in between those chimes. His face turned towards the waning towere, His arms still folded on his breast, The boatmen found him cold and still : The weary heart at rest, A. E.