The Chimes of England

The chimes, the chimes of Motherland,
Of England green and old,
That out from fane and ivied tower
A thousand years have toll'd;
How glorious must their music be
As breaks the hallow'd day,
And calleth with a seraph's voice
A nation up to pray!
Those chimes that tell a thousand tales,
Sweet tales of olden time!
And ring a thousand memories
At vesper, and at prime;
At bridal and at burial,
For cottager and king —
Those chimes — those glorious Christian chimes,
How blessedly they ring!
Those chimes, those chimes of Motherland,
Upon a Christinas morn,
Outbreaking, as the angels did,
For a Redeemer born;
How merrily they call afar,
To cot and baron's hall,
With holly deck'd and mistletoe,
To keep the festival!
The chimes of England, how they peal
From tower and gothic pile,
Where hymn and swelling anthem fill
The dim cathedral aisle;
Where windows bathe the holy light
On priestly heads that falls,
And stain the florid tracery
And banner-dighted walls!
And then, those Easter bells, in spring!
Those glorious Easter chimes;
How loyally they hail thee round,
Old queen of holy times!
From hill to hill, like sentinels,
Responsively they cry,
And sing the rising of the Lord,
From vale to mountain high.
I love ye — chimes of Motherland,
With all this soul of mine,
And bless the Lord that I am sprung
Of good old English line!
And like a son I sing the lay
That England's glory tells;
For she is lovely to the Loud,
For you, ye Christian bells!
And heir of her ancestral fame,
And happy in my birth,
Thee, too, I love, my forest-land,
The joy of all the earth;
For thine thy mother's voice shall be,
And here — where God is king,
With English chimes, from Christian spires
The wilderness shall rinar.