Part II

Listen ! it is the Passing Bell.
Lift up thy heart to God and pray.
A soul is passing, — who can tell
How prayer may help it on its way!

Where art thou ? In thy happy home !
That world in which around thee move
In orbit true, calm lights which come,
Through precious eyes, from hearts that lover

Thy moon and stars that round thee run,
Making soft eves, and glorious nights,
Thyself the centre and the sun,
The day of all their dear delights !

Upon the chambers of thine heart
Brightly their tender radiance falls,
With the deep hue of Nature's art
Lighting up mem'ry's pictured walls,

Where hang around thee all the dreams
That made thy younger years so fair ;
Each looking down on that which seems
The fulness of its promise there.

The day is done — the task complete
That gives its zest to eve's repose ;
Round the bright bounds of home's retreat
Its curtain'd fences softly close ;

The fire-light flickers on the wall
Or dances round the glowing room,
Chasing the shadows, as they fall,
Into each distant corner's gloom.

That pleasant room, so brightly deck'd
With all that taste and wealth can bring
Thine own refinement to reflect
And gratify, in every thing!

Where love of art and antique lore
From sunny climes and southern skies
Hath gather'd, in such varied store,
All that around profusely lies ;

Marbles and bronzes, with their tales
Of leaning tow'r, or lofty dome ;
Gems from the Arno's flow'ry vales,
Or relic from Eternal Rome ;

The Cross that tells the Martyr's trust,
When by the tyrant's sword he died,
Grav'n from the marble that his dust
Sleeping beneath hath sanctified ;

Frescos, upon the ruin'd walls
Of buried cities freshly found,
Whose vivid colouring recalls
Past life 'mid present death around ;

The visions of that glorious land
By hill and valley, lake and stream,
Re-peopled by the sculptor's hand,
Immortal in the painter's dream ;

Memorials of each well-known place,
The haunts of happy bye-gone days,
Each with its own inherent grace
Relieved through mem'ry's soft'ning haze.

They bring the pleasures of the past,
To make the present doubly fair ;
The light of other days they cast
On all that lies around thee there.

Imagination owns their pow'r
To set the tender fancy free,
Loving that sweet but pensive hour,
Twilight of Hope and Memory.

There, as some dreams begin and end
With the same sound which gave them birth,
With thy day-dreamings softly blend
The joy -bells of thy children's mirth,

Calling thee far o'er dream-land's bound ;
Till, bursting through the drawing-room door,
Their precious faces cluster round,
And bring thee back to life once more ;

Their presence like an atmosphere
Of light and perfume, as they move,
Pervading home's enchanted sphere,
And filling all the room with love.

The youngest throned upon thy knee.
Some elder ones around thy feet,
The elder still with catch and glee
Making the air around thee sweet.

All, with their love and laughing eyes,
Their gentle words, and pretty ways,
A brighter world, with sunnier skies,
Than ever known in earlier days.

And — of it all the glory — she,
Whose calmer but intenser light
Makes, with its own pure radiancy,
All bright things round thee tenfold bright;

She who, while watching baby's play,
As her soft arm doth round it twine,
Leaves one dear hand to find its way
Into that tender grasp of thine ;

Her eyes, deep searching through thine own
Into the heart', whose throbbings move,
Responsive to her glance alone,
With answ'ring smiles of love for love.

Too happy man ! The silken snare
That makes the soul its surest spoil
Is woven round thee everywhere,
Thou willing captive of the toil !

Its purity and holiness,
The tranquil joys that round thee meet,
Duties which bind thee not the less
Because their bondage is so sweet!

Thy household gods the God alone
To whom thy heart's adorings rise !
Self for a dearer self foregone
Thy only one self-sacrifice!

Thou wouldst not have the network riv'n
To set thy thralled spirit free;
Careless about a higher Heav'n,
A lower one contenteth thee.

Listen ! for through the outer gloom,
Voices of night the air have stirr'd,
And, through the closely-curtain'd room,
Make their unwelcome accents heard

Above the joy-bell chime, that peals
Its merry laughter in thine ear,
Above her softer voice, who kneels
In all her loveliness so near.

Listen ! It is the Passing Bell.
A soul is passing, — turn away
One moment from th' entrancing spell
That binds thee down to earth, and pray :

Pray for a dying sinners soul,
That He, Whose love can aid it best,
May make the broken-hearted whole,
And give the heavy-laden rest.

In a rich home, not far away,
He lies, whose journey's nearly o'er;
Thou know'st it well, 'twas but to-day
Thou mad'st enquiry at the door.

" Hopelessly ill," was the reply ;
" The vital pow'rs begin to fail."
With trembling lip and tearful eye
The kind domestic told his tale.

The Autumn wind came rushing past
And swept the wither'd leaves aside ;
Folding thy cloak against the blast,
Pensive and homeward thou didst ride !

That happy home — that flock so fair—
Each treasured smile and dear delight
Rose instantly before thee there,
And thou didst tremble at the sight.

Vague shrinking fears! that made the heart
Cower before its own conceit,
Then suddenly arise, and start
To fly from what it fear'd to meet.

With frenzied eye and outstretch'd arm
The momentary prayer was pour'd,
" For Thy dear Love, from every harm,
O, in Thy mercy, save them, Lord ! "

With joy less brimming than of yore,
But yet with deeper, holier love,
This evening thou hast counted o'er
The precious things that round thee move.

Drawn, gently, closer to thy side,
Thy lips on hand or brow imprest,
As they unconscious near thee glide
Folded an instant to thy breast,

Each in its turn is made to feel
The tremblings of thy heart-alarms,
A something thou canst not conceal,
Which starts and agitates, but charms.

Thy voice is softer, and thy soul,
Touch'd with unwonted tenderness ;
While tears which thou canst not control
Dim smiles which thou wilt not repress.

The hour is gracious, and the time
So hallow'd by affections high,
That God would have thee by it climb
Up nearer to Eternity.

Listen ! Though indistinct and dim,
A voice is on the evening air,
A voice to thee, a voice from Him,
Calling thee up to Him in prayer.

Listen ! It is the Passing Bell.
Lift up thy heart to God and pray.
A soul is passing, — who can tell
How prayer may help it on its way !

In one small room— where widow'd grief
Hath hid itself from memories
Of years too brilliant and too brief,
That fill the house— the suff'rer lies,

With scarce one vestige of the fate
Of that gay craft, so richly stored,
Once launch 'd on life, with such a freight
Of love and golden hopes on board.

No shipmate now within his call,
No fragment cast within his reach,
The shipwreck'd master of it all
Lies dying on the wreck-strewn beach.

Fair once for him was life — how fair !
Words could not paint the picture true ;
Shadow alone seem'd wanting there
To brighten joy's contrasted hue.

His heart's first choice — the gentle wife,
From boyhood loved, from childhood known,
The last and highest prize in life
He dared to hope for as his own.

And those bright chroniclers of years
Of summer sunshine o'er him shed,
Where each dear interval appears
Mark'd by a golden-cluster'd head,

He stood among them, and the light
Of all their love was on his brow,
And he, in all their beauty bright,
Seem'd like a god ! — Where are they now !

Like vanish'd pictures, gone ; no trace
Of their soft beauty, — there alone
The gilded frames retain their place,
Their purpose and their glory gone.

The stately home, for pomp and ease
Made fair as human hands could make,
One tender, tasteful eye to please,
At priceless cost, for her dear sake ;

Its lofty rooms, its pictured walls,
Soft carpets, closely curtain'd doors,
Deep oriel windows, through which falls
Bright sunshine upon silent floors ;

Quaint tables strew'd with works of art,
Relics from ruin and from shrine,
Travel's rich spoils from every part,
Choice for their story or design ;

In cold and silent state they lie,
No signs of daily life are there,
No sweet disorder meets the eye,
No pressure upon couch or chair,

No book half read, no music strewn
Upon the open instrument,
No work unfinish'd — idly thrown
Aside, through some disturb'd intent ;

Nothing displaced; no children's toys
Spoiling the order of the room,
No light, no breath of home's dear joys
In the chill chamber's vault-like gloom.

Years have gone by since all the stir
And hum of happy life have fled,
For ever pass'd away with her
Whose home is now among the dead.

First, with'ring on the parent stem,
Bud after bud dropp'd off and died.
The fall-blown rose soon followed them,
Lying in fragrance by their side.

His garden desolate — the bloom
Of all its beauty pass'd away —
His heart laid buried in the tomb,
Why should his weary body stay ?

His lonely years are near their close,
Day is just dawning on his night,
Sad mem'ries soon shall find repose
In hope of everlasting light.

When life from death's dark shade looks back,
How different all the past appears
To him, who tries each well-known track
Far through the dim and silent years!

He sees it all; the lesson taught
In Sorrow's school by slow degrees,
Now — with its last conviction brought
Home to his heart— he clearly sees.

The Love that led him by a way
He knew not, sore against his will ;
The Love that, changeless, day by day
Watches and waits around him still;

The Love that crown'd his life with bliss,
Making it all one happy dream :
The Love that woke him, lest he miss
Through over-love the Love supreme ;

The Love that when it bid him part
From all on earth he loved so well,
Folded him closer to the heart
In which eternal mercies dwell.

He sees it all, and is content ;
The travail of his soul is o'er ;
The weary hours in anguish spent
His joy remembereth no more.

Daily his cross had grown more light ;
Now, from his shoulder it doth glide,
And rises to his dying sight
The Cross on which his Saviour died.

It was his death in life, to bow
His broken heart submissive down :
It is his life in death, and now
Points through the shadow to the Crown.

Listen ! It is his Passing Bell.
Lift up thy heart to God and pray.
His soul is passing, — who can tell
How prayer may help it on its way !

Shrink not from thoughts of death, while life
So bright and warm doth round thee shine :
The parting hour, the closing strife
Sooner or later must be thine.

Love all on earth that charms thee so
With a whole heart, — 'tis life to love ;
But still remember, life below
Is but the school of life above.

True love to its own height uplifts,
To its own level doth restore.
Love not the less God's gracious gifts,
Love only the Great Giver more.

Fold to thine heart, without a fear,
What He bestow'd to help and bless :
Delight thine eyes without a tear
In all their beaming happiness.

He gave them that, by slow degrees,
Love earthly heav'nly love should train :
When He the work completed sees,
May He not take them back again ?

Each love's true service, one by one,
Design'd to stablish, strengthen, stay,
Till angels from the building done
Bear the bright scaffolding away.

O ! use them all as helps toward Heav'n,
Not cords to bind thee down to earth,
Foretastes of purer blessings, giv?n
As heirlooms of thy second birth.

Gather them round thee— kneel and pray ;
Living and dying want thy prayer,
The dying on his homeward way,
The living in his homespun snare.

Let thy full heart go up on high,
Out of thyself, and all that's thine ;
Till God in His great sympathy
Enfold thee in His love divine.

Thy blessing, and thy tender kiss
Press'd to each gentle heart and cheek,
Each to their several rooms dismiss.
Thy soul too over-full to speak.

Thou nearer God, they nearer thee,
A happier since a holier home,
Strengthening in its prosperity
Against dark days which yet may come ;

A home which, using wisely well
For things Eternal things of Time,
Finds not the solemn Passing Bell
Make discord with the marriage chime —

Parts of a chord whose harmonies
Yield to the Master's hand alone,
As with attentive ear He tries
Note after note, till all are one.