Thine is the rust on the cathedral bell Thine is the moth brought forth but to devour That which for thy old tooth mought do as well, Thine is corruption, thine the dead, the slain; But if to atoms thou shouldst all reduce And bring chaotic darkness back again;
There is a Power Creative which let loose From Chaos self thy damn'd domain shall sever And grant to all the right to life for ever.
Ask, gentle reader, of the recreant Muse,
My history, my origin and use.
I am a bell in lofty steeple hung
Where God is worshipp'd and his praise is sung.
My life 's long story shalt thou shortly know,
From whence I came, and whither I must go.
Beyond the spray of Deva's fabled waves,
Deep in Cornubia 's dark unfathom❜d caves,
A metal lay conceal'd in winding veins
Which Vulcan smelted into silvery grains.
old stories tell that in the mystic land
Wherein Queen Mab leads forth the elfin band,
And fairy sprites in moonlight morris dance,
And dapper pizgies round Lostwithiel prance,
Chaste Dian once her plighted vows forgot,
And from her fell bow Cupid's arrow shot:
It dropt on Jove; and, as it entered in
Th'engender'd mixture prov'd the baby Tin,
Full grow,
she imitates her mother's arts,
And follows Phoebus into foreign parts,
Her patron Venus to each flow'ry mead
And crystal brook would fain the youngling lead,
Roaming the Gallic and Italian fields
The amorous damsel soon to Hymen yields.
Thus mother Tin to father Copper join'd
Dissolv'd in warmth, like other lovers kind:
As chaste Lucina blest their mutual flame,
So I their sweet melodious offspring came:
Seven younger brethren did our brood compose
And the full octave in the belfry rose.
Here hung aloft our hallowed rites began,
God's servants and the monitors of man.
We in melodious harmony, are bound,
When the full festive peal is ringing round,
By our sweet melting influence to bind
In stronger social bonds all human kind.
Often at eve, when the hush'd winds are still,
And the soft moon plays on the tinkling rill,
A cross the lake our soften'd murmur swells,
And the lost pilgrim hails the village bells;
Who from some foreign shrine content to come,
Is glad to find himself so near his home.
Oftimes at noon, when warmer duties lead
To the tann'd haycock in the grassy mead,
And the swink't hind, with sultry toil opprest,
Under the blossom'd thorn is laid at rest,
Our startling peal through tangled copses flings
Its cheering notes, and to the herdsman brings
Glad tidings of some victory at sea,
Or else of village wedding, as may be.
Sabina now her oaken bower leaves,
And Marian no longer binds the sheaves;
Both under hedgerow elms together walk,
And waste, beneath the shade, their time in talk
Of who is married? why the bells ring now?
Perhaps then farmer Stock has found his cow!
Or the rich widow has a suitor got
To be the second partner of her lot.
But while our sounds are dying on the gale,
The landlord bears the bowl of spicy ale,
Follow'd by Thestilis, who brings at last
Of country herbs the labourer's repast.
Such is our peal when all in chorus ring;
But each his proper office oft doth sing:
Each separate sound, like prophets' words of old,
Hath its respective duty to unfold.
And though each tongue is various, to one end
All our advice and varied accents tend.
Concord in all is perfect, for 'tis given
To bells, like saints, to cheer the way to Heaven!
Our treble shrill and clear is christened JOHN,
And to each matin choir he calls anon.
His little note, like bleating lamb, doth keep
The early vigils of Christ's folded sheep.
Our second, AGNES, tolls when children die;
A passing bell of plaintive minstrelsy.
Our third named STEPHEN is the sanctus bell:
May all who hear him do their duty well.
Our fourth, sad MAGDALEN, to penance calls,
And startles wassailers in festive halls.
Deep, flat and mellow doth her sombre note
At shriving tide, o'er evening meadows float;
When pensive nuns, yclad in sable veils,
Quit the loud choir, to tell their doleful tales,
And every village maid who weaves or spins
Forsakes her woof and wheel and counts her sins
Now the old hypocrite, alarm'd and sad,
Dreads to confess the crime that drives him mad;
And every monitory clang or knell
Brings to his view repentance, penance, Hell.
Far different yon virgin at her beads,
Who a chaste life in godly counsel leads!
Our fifth, the firebell, is Saint LAURENCE call'd:
A louder larum ne'er from steeple balwl'd.
His voice, most terrible at midnight hour
Makes stout the heart of city wights to cow'r.
That dreadful element in flames had broke
Forth from his bonds, and fill'd the air with smoke.
No more man's slave, his master now become,
Her rages far and wide: hark how the drum,
Mid screaming trumpet and alarming horn,
Proclaims the burning town, and blazing corn,
Loud shriek the women, engines roll along,
And houseless thousands to the ramparts throng.
The deep red sky reflects the horrid light,
And from their nests scares e'en the birds at night,
Meanwhile the bell with wild uproarious clang
Rings on, while many votive prayers are sang,
From fiercer fires than what our fifth proclaims
May our sweet sixth protect all pious dames;
He, BAPTIST call'd, to every mass invites,
And with his cheerful tone the hind delights;
Bids faithful pastors now prepare the way
For Him who from high Heav'n descends to day.
Our seventh, the most mysterious note of all,
Profound and awful, has been christen'd PAUL.
The funeral clang, the mournful passing knell
Attest the force of this soulsaddening bell.
And I, the last, not least, am MARY named,
And for my deep impressive tone am famed;
I bear her image who the infant God
Hath born, and on the conquerd serpent trod.
For each great feast my solemn voice I raise,
Inviting all to sing their Maker's praise:
Then calls the housewife all the maids around,
And says, hark now the MARY clock doth sound.
Wash up the house, and put your work away
Tomorrow is a festive holiday.
Three times, three strokes, three times a day, I ring,
To call the faithfull Angelus to sing
And often times I give the warning sound
Of curfew, when no fire must more be found.
So here I hang in steeple tall; and now
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