This page has been validated.
When his woodbine was fresh, and the tremulous shade
Of the aspen leaf over my path beneath played;
When his day of toil over, the hind turned away
From the perfumed fields of the newly-mown hay;
When no sound was heard, save the woodlark's wild song,
And the peal of those bells borne in echoes along;
They were dear to me then, but now they are brought
More home to my heart, for their music is fraught
With all that to memory is hallowed and dear,
With all those fond thoughts that but speak in a tear.
Voiceless and holy—that simple chime is,
As a spell on the heart at a moment like this;
Yes, sweet are those bells, for most precious to me,
Whatever reminds me loved England of thee!
L. E. L.
