Each oak that left yon inland wood
In some good ship had part,
And every triumph stirred the blood
In every English heart.
Hence, each green hedge that winds along
Filled with the wild flowers small,
Round each green field, is safe and strong
As is a castle wall.
God, in his own appointed time,
Hath made such tumult cease;
There ringeth now in that sweet chime
But only prayer and peace.
How still it is! the bee—the bird—
Float by on noiseless wing.
There sounds no step—there comes no word,
There seems no living thing.
But still upon the soft west wind
These bells come sweeping by,
Leaving familiar thoughts behind,
Familiar, and yet high.
Ringing for every funeral knell,
And for the marriage stave;
Alike of life and death they tell,
The cradle and the grave.
They chronicle the hopes and fears
Upon life's daily page;
Familiar to our childish years,
Familiar to our age.
The Sabbath bells upon our path,
Long may their sound endure;
The sweetest music England hath—
The music of the poor.
60
