THE PASSING-BELL

A roaring furnace, and a passing-bell; Grim vitreous gloom, and one low, raking gleam From a spent sun that spills its passive beam Athwart a smouldering city. Comes the smell Of sweat and labour. The sad, sullen knell Booms in the brain. As in a baleful dream A panting siren, veiled with hissing steam, Shrieks like a looming horror deep in hell. A flaccid flood of faces, blanched with doom, And raucous cries from out a blinking dark Crowd on the callous dusk. With haunting bark Death hunts his hapless victims. Heaven's sick bloom Swoons in the frost. Through droning twilight—hark! The slow, thick, ominous burden of the tomb.