Voices that call thee in the way; and fly No followers at his back, nor in his hand
From all who in the wilderness pass by. Buckler, or sword, or spear,

yet in his mien

Command sat throned serene, and if ne smiled, “Wet not thy burning lip

Å kingly condescension graced his lips, In streams that to a human dwelling glide ; The lion would have crouched to in his lair. Nor rest thee where the covert fountains hide, His garb was simple, and his sandals worn ; Nor kneel thee down to dip

His stature modelled with a perfect grace ; The water where the pilgrim bends to drink, His countenance, the impress of a God, By desert well, or river's grassy brink. Touched with the open innocence of a child;

His eye was blue and calm, as is the sky " And pass not thou between

In the serenest noon; his hair unshorn The weary traveller and the cooling breeze,

Fell to his shoulders ; and his curling beard And lie not down to sleep beneath the trees

The fulness of perfected manhood bore.
Where human tracks are seen ;

He looked on Helon earnestly awhile,
Nor milk the goat that browseth on the plain, As if his heart was moved, and, stooping down,
Nor pluck the standing corn, or yellow grain. He took a little water in his hand

And laid it on his brow, and said, “Be clean!” “And now depart ! and when

And lo! the scales fell from him, and his blood Thy heart is heavy, and thine eyes are dim,

Coursed with delicious coolness through his veins, Lift up thy prayer beseechingly to Him

And his dry palms grew moist, and on his brow Who, from the tribes of men,

The dewy softness of an infant's stole. Selected thee to feel his chastening rod.

His leprosy was cleansed, and he fell down Depart ! O leper ! and forget not God!”

Prostrate at Jesus' feet, and worshipped him.
And he went forth — alone ! not one of all
The many whom he loved, nor she whose name
Was woven in the fibres of the heart
Breaking within him now, to come and speak

Comfort unto him. Yea, he went his way,
Sick and heart-broken, and alone, — to die !
For God had cursed the leper !

THERE lived in Gothic days, as legends tell,

A shepherd swain, a man of low degree;
It was noon,

Whose sires, perchance, in Fairy-land might And Helon knelt beside a stagnant pool

dwell, In the lone wilderness, and bathed his brow, Sicilian groves, or vales of Arcady ; Hot with the burning leprosy, and touched But he, I ween, was of the north countrie, — The loathsome water to his fevered lips,

A nation famed for song, and beauty's charms ;
Praying that he might be so blest, to die ! Zealous, yet modest; innocent, though free ;
Footsteps approached, and with no strength to flee, Patient of toil ; serene amidst alarms;
He drew the covering closer on his lip,

Inflexible in faith ; invincible in arms.
Crying, “Unclean ! unclean !" and in the folds
Of the coarse sackcloth shrouding up his face,

The shepherd swain, of whom I mention made, He fell upon the earth till they should pass.

On Scotia's mountains fed his little flock; Nearer the stranger came, and bending o'er The sickle, scythe, or plough he never swayed; The leper's prostrate form, pronounced his name. An honest heart was almost all his stock ; “Helon !” – the voice was like the master His drink the living water from the rock ; tone

The milky dams supplied his board, and lent Of a rich instrument, — most strangely sweet ; Their kindly fleece to baffle winter's shock; And the dull pulses of disease awoke,

And he, though oft with dust and sweat beAnd for a moment beat beneath the hot

sprent, And leprous scales with a restoring thrill. Did guide and guard their wanderings, where“ Helon ! arise !” and he forgot his curse,

soe'er they went. And rose and stood before him.

From labor health, from health contentment Love and awe

springs; Mingled in the regard of Helon's eye

Contentment opes the source of every joy. As he beheld the stranger. He was not

He envied not, he never thought of, kings; In costly raiment clad, nor on his brow

Nor from those appetites sustained annoy, The symbol of a princely lineage wore ;

That chance may frustrate, or indulgence cloy :

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Nor Fate his calm and humble hopes beguiled ; | Tyrant far less, or traitor of the field; Hemourned no recreant friend nor mistress coy, | And sure the sylvan reign unbloody joy might For on his vows the blameless Phoebe smiled,

yield. And heralone he loved, and loved her from a child.

Lo! where the stripling, rapt in wonder, roves

Beneath the precipice o'erhung with pine ; No jealousy their dawn of love o'ercast,

And sees, on high, amidst the encircling groves, Nor blasted were their wedded days with strife;

From cliff to cliff the foaming torrents shine, Each season looked delightful, as it passed,

While waters, woods, and winds, in concert To the fond husband and the faithful wife.

join, Beyond the lowly vale of shepherd life

And Echo swells the chorus to the skies. They never roamed ; secure beneath the storm

Would Edwin this majestic scene resign Which in Ambition's lofty land is rife,

For aught the huntsman's puny craft supplies ! Where peace and love are cankered by the

Ah! no : he better knows great Nature's charms

to prize. Of pride, each bud of joy industrious to deform.

And oft he traced the uplands, to survey, The wight, whose tale these artless lines unfold, When o'er the sky advanced the kindlingdawn, Was all the offspring of this humble pair ; The crimson cloud, blue main, and mountain His birth no oracle or seer foretold ;

gray, No prodigy appeared in earth or air,

And lake, dim gleaming on the smoky lawn: Nor aught that might a strange event declare. Far to the west the long, long vale withdrawn, You guess each circumstance of Edwin's birth ; While twilight loves to linger for a while ; The parent's transport and the parent's care ; And now he faintly kens the bounding fawn, The gossip's prayer for wealth and wit and And villager abroad at early toil. worth ;

But, lo! the Sun appears ! and heaven, eartlı, And one long summer day of indolence and mirth.

And oft the craggy cliff he loved to climb, And yet poor Edwin was no vulgar boy ;

When all in mist the world below was lost. Deep thought oft seemed to fix his infant eye. Dainties he heeded not, nor gaud, nor toy,

What dreadful pleasure ! there to stand sub

lime, Save one short pipe of rudest minstrelsy ; Silent when glad ; affectionate though shy ;

Like shipwrecked mariner on desert coast,

And view the enormous waste of vapor, tossed And now his look was most demurely sad ; And now he laughed aloud, yet none knew why.

In billows, lengthening to the horizon round, The neighbors stared and sighed, yet blessed

Now scooped in gulfs, with mountains now

embossed ! the lad : Some deemed him wondrous wise, and some be

And hear the voice of mirth and song rebound,

Flocks, herds, and waterfalls, along the hoar prolieved him mad.

found ! But why should I his childish feats display? In truth he was a strange and wayward wight, Concourse and noise and toil he ever fled ; Fond of each gentle and each dreadful scene. Nor cared to mingle in the clamorous fray In darkness and in storm he found delight; Of squabbling imps; but to the forest sped, Nor less, than when on ocean wave serene Or roamed at large the lonely mountain's head, The southern sun diffused his dazzling shene.* Or, where the maze of some bewildered stream Even sad vicissitude amused his soul ; To deep untrodden groves his footsteps led, And if a sigh would sometimes intervene,

There would he wander wild, till Phoebus' beam, And down his cheek a tear of pity roll, Shot from the western cliff, released the weary A sigh, car, so sweet, he wished not to control. team.


ocean, smile.



The exploit of strength, dexterity, or speed,
To him nor vanity nor joy could bring ;
His heart, from cruel sport estranged, would

To work the woe of any living thing,
By trap or net, by arrow or by sling ;
These he detested ; those he scorned to wield ;
He wished to be the guardian, not the king,

HEAR the sledges with the bells, –

Silver bells,
What a world of merriment their melody foretells!

* Brightness, splendor. The word is used by some late writers, as well as by Milton.

How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,

In the icy air of night!
While the stars that oversprinkle
All the heavens seem to twinkle

With a crystalline delight,
Keeping time, time, time,

In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells,

Bells, bells, bells, From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.

Yet the ear it fully knows,

By the twanging,

And the clanging,
How the danger ebbs and flows;
Yet the ear distinctly tells,

In the jangling,

And the wrangling,

How the danger sinks and swells,
By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the

Of the bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,

Bells, bells, bells,
In the clamor and the clangor of the bells !


Hear the mellow wedding bells,

Golden bells !
Whata world of happiness their harmony foretells !

Through the balmy air of night
How they ring out their delight !
From the molten-golden notes,

And all in tune,
What a liquid ditty floats
To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats

On the moon ! 0, from out the sounding cells, What a gush of euphony voluminously wells !

How it swells !

How it dwells
On the Future ! how it tells

Of the rapture that impels
To the swinging and the ringing

Of the bells, bells, hells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,

Bells, bells, bells,
To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells.

Hear the tolling of the bells, –

Iron bells!
What a world of solemn thought their monody

compels !
In the silence of the night,

How we shiver with affright
At the melancholy menace of their tone!

For every sound that floats
From the rust within their throats

Is a groan.


Hear the loud alarum bells,

Brazen bells !
What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells !

In the startled ear of night
How they scream out their affright !

Too much horrified to speak,
They can only shriek, shriek,

Out of tune,
In the clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic

Leaping higher, higher, higher,

With a desperate desire,
And a resolute endeavor,

Now – now to sit or never,
By the side of the pale-faced moon.

O the bells, bells, bells,
What a tale their terror tells

Of despair !
How they clang and clash and roar !

What a horror they outpour
On the bosom of the palpitating air !

And the people, — ah, the people,
They that dwell up in the steeple,

All alone,
And who tolling, tolling, tolling,

In that muffled monotone,
Feel a glory in so rolling

On the human heart a stone,
They are neither man nor woman,
They are neither brute nor human, -

They are ghouls :
And their king it is who tolls ;
And he rolls, rolls, rolls,

A pæan from the bells !
And his merry bosom swells

With the pean of the bells !
And he dances and he yells ;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the pæan of the bells,

Of the bells :
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,

To the throbbing of the bells, Of the bells, bells, bells,

To the sobbing of the bells ; Keeping time, time, time,

As he knells, knells, knells, In a happy Runic rhyme,

To the rolling of the bells, Of the bells, bells, bells,

To the tolling of the bells,

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On this I ponder
Where'er I wander,
And thus grow fonder,

Sweet Cork, of thee, With thy bells of Shandon, That sound so grand on The pleasant waters

Of the river Lee,


I've heard bells chiming
Full many a clime in,
Tolling sublime in

Cathedral shrine,
While at a glibe rate
Brass tongues would vibrate;
But all their music

Spoke naught like thine.

For memory, dwelling
On each proud swelling
Of thy belfry, knelling

Its bold notes free,
Made the bells of Shandon
Sound far more grand on
The pleasant waters

Of the river Lee.

Toll! Roland, toll !
High in St. Bavon's tower,
At midnight hour,
The great bell Roland spoke,
And all who slept in Ghent awoke.

- What meant its iron stroke ?
Why caught each man his blade ?
Why the hot haste he made ?
Why echoed every street
With tramp of thronging feet,
All flying to the city's wall ?
It was the call,
Known well to all,
That Freedom stood in peril of some foe;
And even timid hearts grew bold,
Whenever Roland tolled,
And every hand a sword could hold ;
For men
Were patriots then,
Three hundred years ago !

Toll! Roland, toll!
Bell never yet was hung,
Between whose lips there swung
So true and brave a tongue !

If men be patriots still,
At thy first sound

True hearts will bound,
Great souls will thrill,
Then toll! and wake the test

I've heard bells tolling Old Adrian's Mole in, Their thunder rolling

From the Vatican, And cymbals glorious Swinging uproarious In the gorgeous turrets

Of Notre Dame;

But thy sounds were sweeter Than the dome of Peter

In each man's breast,
And let him stand confessed !

Toll! Roland, toll !
Not in St. Bavon's tower,
At midnight hour,
Nor by the Scheldt, nor far off Zuyder Zee;
But here, — this side the sea ! —
And here, in broad, bright day !

Toll! Roland, toll !
For not by night awaits
A brave foe at the gates,
But Treason stalks abroad — inside ! - at noon !
Toll! Thy alarm is not too soon!
To arms! Ring out the Leader's call !
Re-echo it from east to west,
Till every dauntless breast
Swell beneath plume and crest !
Till swords from scabbards leap !

What tears can widows weep
Less bitter than when brave men fall ?

Toll! Roland, toll !
Till cottager from cottage wall
Snatch pouch and powder-horn and gun,
The heritage of sire to son,
Ere half of Freedom's work was done!

Toll! Roland, toll ! .
Till son, in memory of his sire,
Once more shall load and fire !

Toll! Roland, toll!
Till volunteers find out the art
Of aiming at a traitor's heart !

Toll! Roland, toll !
- St. Bavon's stately tower
Stands to this hour,
And by its side stands Freedom yet in Ghent;

For when the bells now ring,

Men shout, “God save the king !” Until the air is rent!

- Amen !- So let it be;
For a true king is he
Who keeps his people free.

Toll! Roland, toll !
This side the sea !
No longer they, but we,
Have now such need of thee !

Toll! Roland, toll !
And let thy iron throat
Ring out its warning note,
Till Freedom's perils be outbraved,
And Freedom's flag, wherever waved,
Shall overshadow none enslaved !
Toll ! till from either ocean's strand
Brave men shall clasp each other's hand,
And shout, “God save our native land !”
- And love the land which God hath saved !

Toll! Roland, toll!


Toll for the dead, toll, toll !
No, no! Ring out, ye bells, ring out and shout.

For they the pearly gates have entered in,
And they no more shall sin, -

Ring out, ye bells, ring, ring!

Toll for the living, toll !
No, no! Ring out, ye bells, ring out and shout,

For they do His work tho' midst toil and din,
They, too, the goal shall win,

Ring out, ye bells, ring, ring !

Toll for the coming, toll !
No, no ! Ring out, ye bells, ring out and shout,

For it is theirs to conquer, theirs to win
The final entering in,

Ring out, ye bells, ring, ring!

Toll, then, no more, ye bells !
No, no! Ring out, 0 bells, ring out and shout:

The Was, the Is, the Shall Be, and all men
Are in His hand! Amen!

Ring out, ye bells, ring, ring!




Loud and clear From the St. Nicholas' tower, on the listening ear,

With solemn swell,

The deep-toned bell Flings to the gale a funeral knell ;

And hark !- at its sound,

As a cunning old hound, When he opens, at once causes all the young whelps Of the cry to put in their less dignified yelps,

So, the Ititle bells all,

No matter how small, From the steeples both inside and outside the wall,

With bell-metal throat

Respond to the note, And join the lament that a prelate so pious is Forced thus to leave his disconsolate diocese,

Or, as Blois' Lord May'r

Is heard to declare, “Should leave this here world for to go to that





You bells in the steeple, ring, ring out your

changes, How many soever they be,


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