Literary Gazette, 22nd September, 1821, Pages 601-602
Original Poetry.
BELLS.
How sweet on the breeze of the evening swells
The vesper call of those soothing bells,
Borne softly and dying in echoes away,
Like a requiem sung to the parting day.
Wandered from roses the air is like balm,
The wave like the sleep of an infant is calm;
No oars are now plying in flashes to wake
The blue repose of the tranquil lake;
And so slight are the sighs of the slumbering gale,
Scarce have they power to waft my slack sail;
Fair hour, when the blush of the evening light,
Like a beauty is veiled by the shadow of night.
When the heart-heat is soft as the sun's farewell beams,
When the spirit is melting in tenderest dreams;
A wanderer, dear England, from thee and from thine,
Yet the hearths I have left are my bosom's best shrine;
And dear are those bells, for most precious to me,
Whatever can wake a remembrance of thee;
They bring back the memory of long absent times,
Young hopes and young joys are revived in those chimes.
To me they are sweet as the meadows in June,
As the song which the nightingale pours to the moon.
Like the voice of a friend on my spirit they come,
Whose greeting is love, and whose tale is of home.
How blithely they're wont to ring in the new year,
The gayest of sounds amid Christmas time cheer.
How light was the welcome they gave the young May,
When sunshine and flowers decked her festival day.
How soft at the shade of the twilight that bell,
Rolled faintly away o'er my favourite dell;
