But scarcely can he cross himself, or on his good saint call,

Before the sacrilegious flood o'erleaped the churchyard wall;

And, ere a pater half was said, 'mid smoke and crackling glare,

His island tower scarce juts its head above the wide despair.

Upon the peril's desperate peak his heart ftood up sublime;

His first thought was for God above, his next was for his chime;

(C

'Sing now and make your voices heard in hymns of praise," cried he,

"As did the Israelites of old, safe walking through the sea!

(L Through this red sea our God hath made the pathway safe to shore;

Our promised land stands full in fight; fhout now as ne'er before!

3

And as the tower came crushing down, the bells, in clear accord,

Pealed forth the grand old German hymn,-“ All good souls, praise the Lord!"

MATIN BELLS.

I myself will awake right early.—Psalter.

HE Sun is up betimes,

Lowell.

And the dappled Eaft is blush

ing,

And the merry matin-chimes,

They are gushing-Chriftian-gushing !

They are tolling in the tower,
For another day begun;
And to hail the rifing hour
Of a brighter, brighter Sun!
Rise-Chriftian-rise!

For a sunshine brighter far
Is breaking o'er thine eyes,
Than the bonny morning ftar!

The lark is in the sky,

And his morning-note is pouring : He hath a wing to fly,

So he's soaring-Chriftian-soaring!

His neft is on the ground,

But only in the night;

For he loves the matin-sound,

And the highest heaven's height. Hark-Chriftian-Hark!

At heaven-door he fings! And be thou like the lark,

With thy soaring spirit-wings!

The merry matin-bells,

In their watch-tower they are swinging; For the day is o'er the dells,

And they're finging-Chriftian-finging!

They have caught the morning beam
Through their ivied turret's wreath,
And the chancel-window's gleam
Is glorious beneath :

333

ITH deep affection and recollection

I often think of those Shandon bells,

Whose sound so wild would, in days of childhood,

Fling round my cradle their magic spells;
On this I ponder where'er I wander,

And thus grow fonder, sweet Cork, of thee,
With thy bells of Shandon,

That sound so grand on

The pleasant waters of the River Lee.

I've heard bells chiming full many a clime in,
Tolling sublime in Cathedral fhrine,

While at a glib rate brass tongues would vibrate,—
But all their mufic spoke naught like thine;
For memory dwelling on each proud swelling
Of thy belfry knelling its bold notes free,
Made the bells of Shandon