NEW-ENGLAND’S SABBATH BELLS.

I. How sweet upon the morning air, the chime of Sabbath-bells, As full and clear upon the ear the solemn music swells! From many a church in sunny vale, and on the green hill side, The jewels of New-England’s crown, her glory and her pride. II. The busy hum of busy men, this morn forgets to wake, In quiet deep the hushed winds sleep, as fearful they shall break The holy silence which o’erspreads all nature like a spell, With which in music sweet accords the Sabbath-morning bell. III. Those Sabbath-bells—they call us not to piles of mossy stone, Temples of yore, with age now hoar, and ivy overgrown, Through whose stained windows softly creeps a dim religious light, Seeming as it were sanctified unto the Christian’s sight. IV. Nor do they tell of royal courts, in which to worship God, Where nobles gay in bright array bend to their monarch’s nod; No costly paintings please the eye, nor trappings rich and rare, To draw the humble Christian’s heart from sacred praise and prayer. V. But to the simple, hallowed fane, we turn our willing feet, Where, rank unknown, the free alone in humble worship meet; While ‘Holiness unto the Lord’ upon the walls we read, No other ornament than this, no other record need.