CHURCH BELLS. In the dark winter, ere the snow Had lost its glow, This melody we learned; and lo! We hear it now in every breeze We pause and look around Where may the lone church-tower be found, The dim peal in the torrent seems to dwell, Perhaps we sit at home, and dream On some high theme, And forms, that in low embers gleam, Then, wavering as that light and shade, And up and down its plaintive scale Range fitfully, and bear Meet burden to the lowly whispered air, And ever the sweet bells, that charmed Life's morn, are there. The pine-logs on the hearth sometimes Mimic the chimes, The while on high the white wreath climbs, Which seething waters upward fling, In prison wont to dance and sing, All to the same low tune. But most it loves in bowers of June At will to come and go, Where like a minster roof the arched boughs show, Be mine at vesper hour to stray Full oft that way; And when the dreamy sounds decay, CHURCH BELLS. As with the sun the gale dies down, Then, far away from tower or town, Through all the lonely grove Wafting a fair good-night from His high love, Who strews our world with signs from His own world above. So never with regretful eye Need we descry Dark mountains in the evening sky, Nor on those ears with envy think, Which nightly from the cataract shrink In heart-ennobling fear, And in the rushing whirlwind hear, (When from his Highland cave He sweeps unchained over the wintry wave) Ever the same deep chords, such as home fancies crave. Ever the same, yet ever new, Changed and yet true, Like the pure heaven's unfailing blue, The echoing Bells that gave Our childhood welcome to the healing wave: Such the remembered word, so mighty then to save. Lyra Innocentium. ORPHANHOOD. OFT have I watch'd thy trances light, A partner in thy dream's delight, And smile in sleep with thee; To sport again, one little hour, With the pure gales, that fan thy nursery bower, And as of old undoubting upward spring, Feeling the breath of heaven beneath thy joyous wing. But rather now with thee, dear child, Fain would I lie awake, For with no feverish care and wild Thy woes go deep, but deeper far The soothing power of yonder kindly star: Thy first soft slumber on thy mother's breast Was never half so sweet as now thy calm unrest. Thy heart is sad to think upon Thy mother far away, Wondering, perchance, now she is gone, Who best for thee may pray. In many a waking dream of love Thou seest her yet upon her knees above: The vows she breathed beside thee yesternight, She breathes above thee now, winged with intenser might. ORPHANHOOD. Both vespers soft and matins clear Now as of old, and there as here; Nor yet alone she prays. Thy vision (whoso chides, may blame A holier Mother, rapt in more prevailing prayer. "Tis she to whom thy heart took flight Of old, in joyous hour, When first a precious sister spright Came to thy nursery bower, And thou with earnest tone didst say, Mother, let Mary be her name, I pray, For dearly do I love to think upon That gracious Mother-maid, nursing her Holy One." Then in delight, as now in woe, The thoughts that ache and burn A home in Nazareth to their own sweet mind. More than all music are the soothings dear Which meet thee at that door, and whisper, Christ is here. Lyra Innocentium. HAPPY LOVE. SINCE the sweet knowledge I possess That she I love is mine, All nature throbs with happiness, And wears a face divine. The woods seem greener than they were, The stars shine clearer, and the air Until I loved, I was a child, And sported on the sands; But now the ocean opens out, With all its happy lands. The circles of my sympathy I strove to pierce a mystery, And lo the clue is given. The woods, with all their boughs and leaves, Are preachers of delight, And wandering clouds in summer eves Are Edens to my sight. My confidants and comforters Are river, hill, and grove, And sun, and stars, and heaven's blue deep, And all that live aud move. O friendly hills! O garrulous woods! O sympathizing air! O many-voiced solitudes! I know my love is fair. I know that she is fair and true, |