« VorigeDoorgaan »
That treasured joys of Christmas tide
The Christmas carol ring
Deep in my heart, when I would fing;
Its earnest yield of duteous love and praise,
"Wake me again, my mother dear,
The peal of the departing year.
Fair fall the tones that steep
With hopes to sweet sad memories akin!
Long may that soothing cadence ear, heart, con
In the dark winter, ere the snow
This melody we learned; and lo!
Where may the lone church-tower be found,
Perhaps we fit at home, and dream
And forms, that in low embers gleam,
And up and down its plaintive scale
Meet burden to the lowly whispered air,
And ever the sweet bells, that charmed Life's
morn, are there.
The pine-logs on the hearth sometimes
The while on high the white wreath climbs,
In prison wont to dance and fing,
All to the same low tune.
But most it loves in bowers of June
At will to come and go,
Where like a minster roof the arched boughs fhow, And court the penfive ear of loiterer far below.
Be mine at vesper hour to ftray
And when the dreamy sounds decay,
Through all the lonely grove
Wafting a fair good-night from His high love, Who ftrews our world with figns from His own world above.
So never with regretful eye
Need we descry
Dark mountains in the evening sky,
In heart-ennobling fear,
And in the rufhing whirlwind hear,
(When from his highland cave
He sweeps unchained over the wintry wave,)
Ever the same, yet ever new,
Like the pure heaven's unfailing blue,
Through life, or waking or in dream,
Our childhood welcome to the healing wave:
ST. SYLVAN'S BELL.
Desire of me, and I shall give thee the heathen for thine inheritance, and the utmost parts of the earth for thy possession.-Psalter.
FORTNIGHT it was from Whit
And a service was said that day,
In the wilderness far away.
A twelvemonth before, and there was not there
Or temple or holy bell;
But the place it was free from holiness
Five thousand years this world is old,