Volume 4 — CHRISTMAS BELL.

In broken notes of sound, The voice of distant bells Falls fitfully around, Borne o'er the rimy dells. Anon in wailing tones It breaks against the breeze, Or in sad accents moans Amidst the shivering trees. In fragments o'er the glades It falls, or floats aloft; Then trumulously fades In echoes low and soft. But other, nearer chimes, In laughing octaves run, In memory of old times. And what the days have done. Then changing, clang and wail Up in their prison high. And sob and groan and rail At their captivity. Ringing:—flinging wild notes everywhere! Clanging:—hanging discord in the air! Chiming:—rhyming words from brazen throat! Pealing:—stealing o'er the meadows and the moat! Dying:—sighing gently as a child! Floating:—gloating o'er their tumult wild! Swinging:—springing suddenly to life! Surging:—urging nature into strife! Laughing:—quaffing the sweet and eager air! Groaning:—moaning in a weird note of despair! {472} Yes, how they sigh, And seemed to die: But like expiring ember, At slightest breath They leap from death, And wrestle with December! Oh, 'tis strange How they change, In rhythmus and in measure, Now tolling sad. Now almost mad, With throbbing pulse of pleasure. But not long thus,—the ringers soon Will catch the proper metre, Staccato first; then rippling tune Grows every moment sweeter. Away, away, the music flies. O'er mead and wold and river, Arpeggio movement shakes the skies. And makes the belfry quiver. Away, away, the cheerful sound Flies with its Christmas greeting. And laughs along the icy ground. Where snow-drops pale are peeping. The crocus, hearing chimes of mirth. Puts on her brightest yellow, What cares she for the frosty earth. When peals ring out so mellow? The blackbird, in a love-lorn mood, Is pecking at red berries. But hark! those joy-bells make her food As sweet as summer cherries. In truth all nature hears the strains, With heart of honest gladness; They ring surcease of human pains, And ring—a death to sadness. They ring of friendship, and the grasp Of hands in manly greeting; They ring the softer tender clasp Of Love and Psyche meeting. They ring oblivion of the years Whose sunset was in sorrow; They drown in waves of sound, the fears That cloud the dawn to-morrow. {473} They ring the affluent table spread. They ring of that sweet maiden Who comes, with modest silent tread, With gifts for poor folk laden. They ring in tones more sweet than all Of hopes the Cross has given, And then their glad notes rise and fall. Like Christmas bells in Heaven.