1841]
ECHO OF THE SABBATH BELL
259
WESTWARD, HO!
The needles of the pine
All to the west incline.[1]
THE ECHO OF THE SABBATH BELL HEARD IN THE WOODS[2]
Dong, sounds the brass in the east,
As if for a civic feast,
But I like that sound the best
Out of the fluttering west.
The steeple rings a knell,
But the fairies' silvery bell
Is the voice of that gentle folk,
Or else the horizon that spoke.
Its metal is not of brass,
But air, and water, and glass,
And under a cloud it is swung,
And by the wind is rung,
With a slim silver tongue.
When the steeple tolls the noon,
It soundeth not so soon,
Yet it rings an earlier hour,
And the sun has not reached its tower.
May 10. Monday. A good warning to the restless
