Part IV

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 ? Hov'ring round the home
Of one unfit thy mate to be,
Whom thou wouldst tempt from thence to roam
And trust her happiness to thee!

Fair is the cot — though humble — fair
In which the envied treasure lies ;
Pleasant with all that taste and care
Impart of life's amenities.

Though low the lot of those who dwell
Under that deep-eaved roof of heath :
How many things around it tell
Of gentle hearts and hands beneath !

The trellis'd vine, the creeping rose
That half the lattice pane conceals,
Yet, where its peeping blossom blows,
The carefulness of taste reveals ;

The threshold stone so white and clean ;
The gravel, scarce disturbed by feet
Wont to walk carefully between
Its boxwood borders trim and neat ;

The beds well stock'd in order'd row,
Bound round with many a ribbon band
Of varied flowers, in gallant show,
That tie them back on either hand ;

The fruit-trees train'd to bear the weight
Of golden Autumn's juicy store,
And stretching from the garden gate
Up almost to the cottage door ;

The bee-hives in that shelter'd nook
Above the close -cut grassy glade
That slopes down to the hidden brook
Singing and dancing in the shade,

The bound'ry-hedge of closest thorn,
The work, through many a careful year,
Of latest eve and earliest morn,
With love's bright wage the heart to cheer;

The wicket fresh in spring-tide paint,
And perfect in its neat repair ;
The summer-house moss-grown and quaint,
With its old easy rustic chair;

The open book, but just laid down
With flutt'ring leaves upon the seat ;
The rustle of a silken gown
Just heard, with tread of little feet,

As of one startled like a bird
From its leaf-hidden place of rest,
And flying, at the sound it heard,
For shelter to the parent nest

Where art thou ? Hov'ring round the home
Of one on whom thy heart is set ;
Whom thou wouldst tempt from thence to roam
And its pure happiness forget ;

One all unfit to be thy mate
In blood, though not in cultured mind,
Who, if she leave her poor estate
To follow thee, leaves peace behind ;

Too lowly in the Life-degree
Which custom would thy rank assign,
Too high in simple purity
To mate with heart impure as thine ;

The only child of those whose place
Is naught where haughty lordlings tread,
That poor but honest, hardy race -.
Who earn by toil their daily bread ;

Whose lot, though full of crushing cares,
Yet, in its very losses, wins
The prize of safety from some snares
Of wealth's too oft familiar sins.

Bright with their changeful sun and shade,
Full twenty years are past and gone
Since love, as pure as ever made
Two hearts in tend'rest union one,

Found for itself that pleasant spot,
Where life's new journey might begin,
And built and made that lowly cot
As fair without as dear within.

Reclaim'd from the wild moorland waste,
The gradual years had seen it grow
Into that thing of use and taste
Which pleased the passing traveller so ;

Which now, in its completeness, stands
Memorial how God's gentle care,
With loving hearts and willing hands,
Had made it and has kept it fair.

One only child their union blest,
Centre of all their earthly love,
Round whom alike in toil or rest
Their hearts in ceaseless orbit move.

Part of their being, sight or sense,
Or thought, or feeling could not stir
With separate intelligence,
One moment as apart from her.

Her years the gradual progress tell
In age of every shrub or tree ;
Her life was the bright chronicle
Of that home's happy history.

" Here as a little babe she lay,
And with her tiny fingers play'd,
Propt with a tuft of new-mown hay,
While we that bit of garden made

How pleasantly the work was done !
Though broken oft, we can't conceal,
With now and then a little run
Just to her side a kiss to steal.

This flow'ring shrub, with blossoms gay,
Beneath whose fragrant shade we sit,
It was upon her third birth-day
You know, my love, she planted it.

Fresh raised from sickness, just to please
Her languid life, and lift a load
Off our own hearts, that belt of trees
We planted to shut out the road,

And made this patch of level green
Smooth to assist the flying ball,
For that bright game which She had seen
The children playing at the Hall.

She then was six years old I know,
For, looking all so thin and wan.
We took the paddock down below
To feed her sweet-breath'd nurse upon.

How often when the day was done
Against you both a match I've play'd,
And linger'd on, past set of sun,
Far into twilight's moon-lit shade ;

And felt the half-exhausted store
Of strength within me but revive,
Though I must rise, I knew, at four,
To reach my distant work at five.

" That little room, beyond our own,
Now ivy-clad and bright with flow'rs,
I built it, every stick and stone,
With my own hand in leisure hours ;

You mind, 'twas first for fresher air
Through the close nights of summer-heat,
And then to give, with finer care,
Her youth a separate retreat.

She was just ten when I began
The work, and O how fast it sped !
For, ere the year its journey ran,
I set up there her little bed.

Ah ! mind you not the sweet surprise,
How toil-repaying — O how sweet!
Which danced in her delighted eyes
When first she saw that room complete.

" And there— 'twas four years later — there,
Just but one curtain'd step apart,
I built that little nook for prayer,
And secret communings of heart.

You well remember, love, the shade
Which o'er her brow its softness shed
From that day when the Bishop laid
His hand in blessing on her head.

We saw it both, and communing
Of what might help her spirit best,
We plann'd for the dear holy thing
That quiet nook of Heav'n-ward rest.

" 'Twas but to-day I ventured in,
I knew she'd to the village gone ;
I thought it could not be a sin
Its privacy to look upon.

Her hymn-book and her Sunday gloves
Lay on the little window-seat;
And 'neath that picture, which she loves,
Of Mary at the Saviour's feet,

Fresh flow'rs their gentle homage paid
Of mingled beauty and perfume,
Gladd'ning with both the tender shade
That soften'd all the sacred room.

Upon the prayer-desk lay her book,
The leaves were somewhat backward bent
From frequent use, — a glance I took —
The prayer was one for calm content.

And by the book a letter lay.
The hand unknown, I stoop'd not near,
But saw, before I turn'd away.
The glist'ning of a fresh- fall'n tear.

And O ! " I inly thought, " what need
To ask content in such a home ?
And O ! what grief, to make it bleed,
To such a heart as hers can come ?

" Dear love, I've mark'd of late her eye
When bent on us, as ever, fond,
Yet sometimes wand'ring restlessly
Out into dreaminess beyond.

And sometimes I a sigh have caught
Half breathed, but instantly suppress'd
Or laugh'd away, as if she thought
We heard it, and would be distress'd.

Some change she surely wants, and we,
Ere Autumn clothe the fields in gold,
Will take her down beside the sea,
And let her other scenes behold. "

Thus, as she answ'ring sigh'd or smiled,
Whose love made lighter every care,
He talk'd, whose heart was in his child,
And his whole world around him there.

But she— the theme of all their talk
And thought — although no words were said,
Had heard a step upon the walk,
And, startled, from herself she fled.

Dreading the drawings of her heart
To that near which she dare not stay ;
Too weak with all at once to part ;
Almost too weak to turn away.

Oft in that wood adown the glen
She'd met a stranger friend of late,
But never knew him until then
Venture so near the garden-gate.

Chance-met one evening by the stile,
He help'd her o'er the broken way,
Then, with low bow and gentle smile,
Had a few pleasant things to say.

He saw her to the little stream
That murmurs 'neath her father's place,
And left her with a happy dream
Of wilder'd brightness in her face.

Too often thence at eve she stole
Back to the well-remember'd spot,
With pausing step and pensive soul,
Plucking the wild " Forget-me-not."

And he, as mindful of the scene
As she had been, came often there ;
And thus there grew up both between
Such thoughts as two alone can share.

He spake of love with trembling voice,
She heard the tale with thrilling ear;
Why should not that young heart rejoice
In words so natural and dear ?

And sometimes, with an Overflow
Of trust, her soul would on him rest ;
And then — though why she did not know —
Fear vaguely fill'd her fluttering breast.

He call'd himself a gard'ner's son ;
His hands show'd not a trace of toil ;
Small labour had they ever done
Their whiteness with the spade to spoil !

On the first eve they met he wore,
She knew, a golden signet ring ;
Was it by chance that never more
She saw the little tell-tale thing ?

The very words she so much loved,
Refined in thought, and gently said,
Too gentle, too refined, but proved
An unknown cause of secret dread.

None ever met before had shown
Such tender deference, such respect,
Till, taught by such, she'd almost grown
Like care in others to expect.

And yet the rough, uncomely ways
Of one, who, for her slightest smile
Would watch by night and work by (days.
And journey many a weary mile —

That honest creature up the hill,
Whom she could at her father's meet —
His homage, though uncultured, still
Seem'd safer, if not quite so sweet.

It was not all, she felt, as bright
And pleasant as such things should be ;
An under-current of affright
Disturb'd that sweet security,

Which up from childhood had been hers,
As she in years and stature grew j
Which nothing outward ever stirs
If all within be clear and true.

Why seeks he not their humble place ?
Her father's good, her mother's mild ;
Why look not frankly in their face
And tell them that he loves their child ?

"Why is she silent ? Why unheard
Her wonted prattle day by day ?
Why watching every glance and word
Lest they her inmost thoughts betray ?

Alas ! she could not see or tell
Half of the ills that round her throng ;
But this she knew too sadly well,
That one dissembled thought was wrong.

And thus that stile not lately sought,
Where he, at eve, would watch and wait,
Had, through her frequent absence, brought
His well-known footsteps to her gate.

One thought, one impulse, one alarm !
She starts, and, rising from her chair.
Flies from herself as if from harm,
And hides her in her place of prayer.

And where art thou, thou man unblest ?
Hov'ring, like evil bird of prey,
Ready to swoop down on the nest
And bear its callow young away !

Upon the very brink of sin,
Where, but for one of God's delays,
One step, and the dark plunge within
Must leave thee wretched all thy days !

Listen ! the voice of God is near ;
It pleads and pleads, and will not cease ;
Stoop with attentive heart, and hear
Its call to purity and peace.

There's not a sound that stirs the air,
A breath that doth the waters move,
But they can hear Him speaking there
Who know by heart His voice of Love.

Listen ! It is the Passing Bell !
His voice mysterious, still and small !
Which rises on the solemn swell,
And whispers in the dying fall.

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 !

Thy friend— if he deserve the name
Who hath been no good friend to thee;
Whose death of horror, life of shame,
Tell their own tales of misery —

That bell reminds thee of his fate ;
It toll'd for him a week ago,
And as it toll'd—" Too late ! too late !"
Sway'd in its boomings to and fro.

He died, as he had lived, in sin ;
Would not repent, could not repair;
And mock'd the promise that would win
His passing soul from black despair.

The Priest of God above him stood,
And held the Cross before his eyes,
And told of Jesu's cleansing blood,
Of Christ's atoning sacrifice.

He laugh'd both Cross and Christ to scorn.
He knew the names, alas ! too well s
He wish'd he never had been born,
And went with curses down to Hell.

Wasted, and wasting all around,
His life a poison-tree had been ;
Nothing within its influence found
Could long be innocent or green.

The child of passion, what he saw,
Selfish, he craved for, and must have ;
His will, his way's unbending law,
Deep and devouring as the grave.

How many a fair and gentle maid.
To him confiding all her fate,
By him beguiled, by him betray'd,
Had been by him left desolate !

Worn for a season bright but brief,
He flung the wither'd flow'r away ;
Not half the guilt, but all the grief
Her melancholy penalty.

O ! could the crush'd and ruin'd things,
Which seem so unavenged and lone
Have watch'd the death-bed sufferings
Of their destroyer, — they'd have known

How He can punish who would .save,
How dreadful the avenging rod,
Which they shall feel who dare to brave
The " I will recompense" of God !

And now that Passing Bell ! — it tolls
To ask good Christian folk to pray
For one of those departing souls
Which he in life had led astray.

An outcast from her father's home,
Thrown on man's inhumanity,
The stricken deer at length had come
To rest in childhood's shades and die.

A kindly friend, who knew her youth,
Had taken the poor suff'rer in ;
Love did in this no wrong to truth,
Loving the sinner, not the sin.

That aged friend, with one young heart
Pure, fresh, and gentle by her side,
Had done a Christian sister's part
To her for whom the Saviour died.

And that young heart, which day and night
Upon her waited, by her knelt,
And never thought that taint or blight
But rather blessing, round her dwelt,

'Twas she who fled the tempter's snare,
Soon after this brief tale began,
And, hidden in her place of prayer,
Now supplicates the Son of Man.

She knows that Bell— for whom it pleads
For prayer in death's extremity,
And unto Him who intercedes
Prays for that soul, herself, and thee.

Kneel, sinful man ! without the door
Of her who for her tempter prays ;
And pray thyself that never more
Thy feet may follow wilful ways.

Near one so pure it is not meet
That thoughts unhallow'd should be found ;
" Put off thy shoes from off thy feet,"
Thou standest upon holy ground.

Think of thy tender mother's knee,
Thine infancy's most holy place ;
Think of thy sister's purity,
Thy father's honest, trustful face.

Think of thy younger brothers all,
Thyself so god-like in their sight ;
Thy name, for ages, at the Hall
Another name for truth and right.

Think of her claims who, though unknown,
Haply by some young mother's side
Is growing up to be thine own
Affianced wife, and gentle bride.

Perfect and pure in every part
Thou seek'st the holy thing to be ;
Give her a body and a heart
As pure as those she brings to thee.

Her rights with earliest years begin,
Nor, even in the grave, the while
Are lost; no look, no thought of sin,
should e'er her other self defile.

But chiefly think of Him who died
To cleanse thee with His precious Blood,
The Man of Sorrows, crucified
To make thee holy, pure, and good.

And think of that dear covenant
Which makes Him thine so certainly,
That thou canst never know a want
His fulness will not all supply ;

That covenant, which, undefiled
And spotless, binds thy soul to prove
How purely God's adopted child
May live a life of " Holy Love."

Love ! call not that by such a name
Which, to our grosser sense confined,
The beasts in common with us claim,
As one strong instinct of their kind.

Sinless in them, for whom no soul
Leads with its purer light on high ;
Sinful in us, till Love control
And elevate and sanctify.

Love is the inbreathed soul of sense,
And sense without it vile and low ;
Love is that pure intelligence
By which the heart its God doth know.

Love is the life of all our years,
Their breath, their pulse, their hope, their joy ;
Grief cannot quench its light in tears,
Pain cannot part, or death destroy.

It comes from God ; with bliss it fills
The happy hearts and homes of men,
And, flowing through a thousand rills,
Then rises up to Heav'n again.

But Love, to be that holy thing
Which shall through life and death endure,
Life's great self-sacrifice must bring,
And be, as God Himself is, pure.

Its source is in a Broken Heart ;
Its stream is from a Wounded Side.
Before the worlds were — Love Thou art !
And when the worlds cease — shalt abide.

O Love ! most holy, most divine !
Fill earth below as Heav'n above :
For they, whose life is fill'd with Thine,
Share God's own being — " God is Love."