Now in gems their relics lie,
And their names in blazonry,

And their forms from storied panes

Gleam athwart their own loved fanes,
Each his several radiance flinging
On the sacred Altar floor,

Whether great ones much are bringing,
Or their mite the mean and poor.

Bring thine all, thy choicest treasure,
Heap it high and hide it deep:
Thou shalt win o'erflowing measure,

Thou shalt climb where skies are steep.
For as Heaven's true only light
Quickens all those forms so bright,
So where Bounty never faints,
There the Lord is with His Saints,
Mercy's sweet contagion spreading
Far and wide from heart to heart,
From His Wounds atonement shedding
On the blessed widow's part.

"Wake me, that I the twelvemonth long

May bear the song

About with me in the world's throng;

That treasured joys of Christmas tide

May with mine hour of gloom abide ;
The Christmas carol ring

Deep in my heart, when I would sing ;
Each of the twelve good days

Its earnest yield of duteous love and praise,

Ensuring happy months, and hallowing common ways.

"Wake me again, my mother dear,

That I may hear

The peal of the departing year.

O well I love, the step of Time

Should move to that familiar chime :

Fair fall the tones that steep

The Old Year in the dews of sleep,

The New guide softly in

With hopes to sweet sad memories akin!

Long may that soothing cadence ear, heart, conscience

win."

In the dark winter, ere the snow
Had lost its glow,

This melody we learned; and lo!

We hear it now in every breeze

That stirs on high the summer trees.
We pause and look around—

Where may the lone church-tower be found,
That speaks our tongue so well?

The dim peal in the torrent seems to dwell,
It greets us from afar in Ocean's measured swell.

Perhaps we sit at home, and dream

On some high theme,

And forms, that in low embers gleam,
Come to our twilight Fancy's aid :

Then, wavering as that light and shade,

The breeze will sigh and wail,

And up and down its plaintive scale

Range fitfully, and bear

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

Mimic the chimes,

The while on high the white wreath climbs,
Which seething waters upward fling,

In prison wont to dance and sing,

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 show,
And court the pensive ear of loiterer far below.

Be mine at Vesper hour to stray

Full oft that way,

And when the dreamy sounds decay,
As with the sun the gale dies down,
Then far away, from tower or town,
A true peal let me hear,

In manifold melodious cheer,

Through all the lonely grove

Wafting a fair good-night from His high love,

Who strews our world with signs from His own world above.