The Bells of Ardo

By wide gray orchards girdled, And cloistered deep in vines, Remote stood ancient Ardo Amid the Apennines. Below her banded belfries That loomed above the land For weeks gaunt Plague and Famine Had walked with linkèd hand. Until, when neared the Yule-tide, On pale lips swooned the prayer, And only sounds of wailing Swept down the bitter air. No heart had any ringer To sound the joyful bells; The soaring campanile Pealed naught but burial knells. So when the Christmas sunlight Scattered the chill white haze The sorely scourgèd people Were smitten with amaze Hearing from San Stefano,— A spire and shrine forlorn,— A glorious jubilate Salute the startled morn. Fast flocked the folk, and wonder Swelled high that dawning hour, For unseen hands were swinging The bells within the tower. And ’twixt their rhythmic chiming, Word upon precious word, A vibrant voice of promise In solemn wise was heard; “This day,” it cried, “my people, The cruel curse shall cease, And there shall fall upon you My benison of peace!” When failed the silvery bell-notes Till arch and aisle were still, ’Twas found that all in Ardo Were healed of every ill. And now, as Christmas morning Breaks over street and square The bells of San Stefano Ring out upon the air; And still the gathered people Lift praise with glad accord Unto the One almighty That was their fathers’ Lord.