The Monthly Magazine, Volume 1, Page 380
THE SONG OF THE CURFEW.
Hark! 'tis the curfew’s knell!—the stars may shine,
But of the lights that cherish household cares
And festive gladness, burns not one that dares
To twinkle after that dull stroke of thine,
Emblem and Instrument, from Thames to Tyne,
Of force that daunts, and cunning that ensnares.Wordsworth.
Hark! from the dim church-tower,
The deep slow curfew's chime!
A heavy sound unto hall and bower,
In England's olden time!
Sadly 'twas heard by him who came
From the fields of his toil at night,
And who might not see his own hearth's flame
In his children's eyes make light.
Sadly and sternly heard,
As it quench'd the wood-fire's glow,
Which had cheer'd the board with the mirthful word,
And the red wine's foaming flow;
Until that sullen-booming knell,
Flung out from every fane,
On harp, and lip, and spirit fell,
With a weight and with a chain.
Woe for the wanderer then,
In the wild deer's forest far!
No cottage-lamp, to the haunts of men,
Might guide him as a star.
And woe for him, whose wakeful soul
With lone aspirings fill'd,
Would have lived o'er some immortal scroll,
While the sounds of earth were still'd!
And yet a deeper woe
For the watchers by the bed,
Where the fondly lov'd in pain lay low,
And rest forsook the head!
For the mother, doom'd unseen to keep
By the dying babe her place,
And to feel its throbbing breast, and weep,
Yet not behold its face!
Darkness, in chieftain's hall!
Darkness in peasant's cot!
While Freedom, under that shadowy pall,
Sate mourning o'er her lot.
Oh! the fire-side's peace we well may prize,
For blood hath flow'd like rain,
Pour'd forth to make sweet sanctuaries
Of England's homes again!
Heap the yule-faggots high,
Till the red light fills the room!
It is home's own hour, when the stormy sky
Grows thick with evening gloom.
Gather ye round the holy hearth,
And by its brightening blaze,
Unto thankful bliss we will change our mirth,
With a thought of the olden days!
F. H.
