And as I gaze on that tower so gray, I think of the songs that bell hath sung, And its mournful tones o'er the lifeless clay; In their silvery tones so faint and clear. "Tis a faithful monitor, that bell, To the heart that knoweth its sounds so well; The wild winds on their wings prolong, Day follows day, Still onward marches Time; His scythe I hear, Its clang sounds near, From out my screen I reach with varied song; And o'er the soul Man holds with me, The hurried strife My merry peals excite; A funeral song I sing o'er death's sad blight. Years roll away, yet its clear notes rise THE VILLAGE BELL. High up in the tower of the old moss covered church, which the winds and storms of many years have beaten against, hangs the village bell. How many times it has been rung in merriment and rejoicing, in sadness and mourning! And yet it is as faithful as if it had not stood sentinel over the little country town for half a century. Fifty years! How long, and yet how short! In that time the little churchyard has been filled. The sleepers listened to the sound of the old bell in the days that are gone; and when they passed away, it tolled sadly and solemnly, as they were carried,-lovingly, regretfully, through the old gate-way, and silently laid down to their calm, sweet rest. What a long, undisturbed rest it is! They hear not the tones of the old bell, as it tells that still another is being brought out to sleep with them, under the green mounds that mark their resting-place. Is it sounding an invitation from those already there, saying, with its hollow voice, “Come--rest-with-us?" Is it sending up to the Great White Throne a deep-toned, agonized prayer from those who stand weeping by the open grave, supplicating, “God-help--us?" Is it the voice of the departed calling from the other shore, "Come-to-me?" Which is it? Who can tell? We all know its solemn tolling sends a sorrowful thrill to our hearts. Are we laughing? The laugh goes out on our lips at thought of the anguished father, or mother, or sister, or brother-the lonely-hearted, desolate husband or wife. God help them at such a time! It may be that he sends such terrible dispensations to show us how infinite is his power. As we listen we cannot help thinking in our hearts, and the words form themselves slowly with its deep sound of the old bell," Will-it-be-my-turn--next?" Sometimes its tones seem almost human, so readily do we assimilate them with our own emotions. It is a calm, beautiful morning-a lovely, sunshiny Sabbath morning--and our hearts are filled with solemn gratitude to the Great Giver. It is inviting us to come and worship. We fancy its loud, regular double strokes say, “Praise God! praise God!" Its tones seem to be inspired with the sacredness of its holy mission. It is evening; and just while twilight is stealing over us, the bell's mellow tones come floating down, and thrill through our hearts, wandering in and out, till they grow faint and low, like the sweet, soft music of an Æolian harp. How merrily it is ringing a welcome to the happy young bride and bridegroom! They are just coming up the aisle, the admired of all the simple, honest villagers assembled to witness their joy. His frank, manly face is bent down above hers, and her eyes are raised trustfully to his. What a perfect shower of music the bell is making! What a glad, joyous ring! The day fades away. It is night, and then day again. Hark! What sound is that? What has so changed the tones of the old bell? Last night it was ringing in loud rejoicing; to-day it is slowly tolling, tolling, like great, deep, half-suppressed sobs. What a dreary sadness steals over us as we listen to its muffled sound! Another friend has passed away. The form, lately so full of life and gayety, is now cold and still in death; and now, in the beautiful springtime, the setting sun casts a golden, warm, and mellow light on the heavy sod that covers her breast, and the villagers sorrowfully mourn a loved one. Every inhabitant of the village will tell you what the old bell is to him. Every peal awakens a responsive heartbeat in our breasts, for the recollection of half a century is sweetened by hallowed memories. PADDY BLAKE'S ECHO.-SAMUEL LOVER. In the gap of Dunlo And some of them echoes is very surprisin'; That I mane to desaive, For a ballad 's a thing you expect to find lies in. In that hill forminst you There's an echo as plain and as safe as the bank, too; "How d' ye do, Paddy Blake?" The echo politely says, "Very well, thank you!" One day Teddy Keogh To hear from the echo such wondherful talk, sir; Was conthrairy that day, Or perhaps Paddy Blake had gone out for a walk, sir. So Ted says to Kate, ""Tis too hard to be bate By that deaf and dumb baste of an echo, so lazy; At each other, no doubt, We'll make up an echo between us, my daisy!" "Now, Kitty," says Teddy, "Oh, very well, thank you," cried out Kitty then, sir; "Oh, very well, thank you," says Kitty again, sir. Cried," Very well, thank you!" with laughter beguiling. Teddy could not do less Than pay his respects to the lips that were smiling. Oh, dear Paddy Blake, Those hills that return us such echoes endearing: The sweet echoes like Kate, No faithfulness doubting, no treachery fearing. Be earnest in loving, though given to joking; May all true lovers find Sweet echoes to answer from hearts they're invoking. WHAT WHISKEY DID FOR ME.-EDWARD CARSWELL. TO BE RECITED IN CHARACTER. Kind friends, I'm glad to meet you here; A soldier who has served his time I've stood by him through thick and thin, And when for him I sold my coat I fought for him, I bled for him, As through the streets I'd rave, My boots were of the neatest fit, My eyes were of the deepest blue, But now you see they both are red, My nose was never beautiful, But still was not amiss; Old Alcohol, he touched it up, And what d' ye think of this? He promised I should courage have The bravest thing he made me do He promised he would give me wit, The health and wealth he promised me But when he'd taken all I had, I found myself a slave. So now I'll fight for him no more, He's cheated me and lied to me- THE NIGHT THAT BABY DIED.-NICHOLAS NILES. No black-plumed hearse goes slowly sweeping by, No long procession winding to the tomb Only one carriage and two mourners there, A little pine-wood coffin, rudely stained Who would suppose that that small box contained The night that Baby died? Poor Baby! what a gleam of glory lit Yon wretched hovel when he brightened it With his sweet presence, of a winter morn! |