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The belfry-ropes have hung a long, long time,

But only midnight breezes make them quiver. Let thy heart ring, like some cathedral chime, For ever and for ever.

If there be none to hearken to thy song—

No ears to heed—no loving eyes to glisten— God's little wood-birds sing the whole day long,

And care not who will listen.

Then let the roses of thy fancy peep

Within the love-lit cottage of thy heart; And, like a consecrated treasure, keep

The knowledge of thine art.

And lift thy trusting eyes unto the sky,

For Heaven—not earth—shall give thy words a hearing. Speak truth undauntedly, and live and die

Life loving, death unfearing.

Scorn not thy life—it is the gift of God;

Scorn not thy kind—they are His children too. The dark-blue violet rises from the sod

All the long winter through.

It throws a smile upon each winter day—
A fragrance o'er the frosty atmosphere.
Thou hast had many winters; I will stay

With thee another year.

NEVER RAIL AT THE WORLD.
By Charles Swain.

Never rail at the world—it is just as we make it,—

We see not the flower if we sow not the seed; And as for ill luck, why it's just as we take it,—

The heart that's in earnest no bars can impede. You question the justice which governs man's breast,

And say that the search for true friendship is vain; But remember, this world, though it be not the best,

Is the next to the best we shall ever attain.

Never rail at the world, nor attempt to exalt

That feeling which questions society's claim; For often poor Friendship is less in the fault,

Less changeable oft, than the selfish who blame. Then ne'er by the changes of Fate be deprest,

Nor wear, like a fetter, Time's sorrowful chain; But believe that this world, though it be not the best,

Is the next to the best we shall ever attain.

OLD CHURCH BELLS.
From the Dublin University Magazine.

Ring out merrily,

Loudly, cheerily,
Blithe old bells from the steeple tower.

Hopefully, fearfully,

Joyfully, tearfully,
Moveth the bride from her maiden bower.
Cloud there is none in the bright summer sky,
Sunshine flings benison down from on high;
Children sing loud, as the train moves along,
"Happy the bride that the sun shineth on."

Knell out drearily,

Measured out wearily,
Sad old bells from the steeple gray,

Priests chanting slowly,

Solemnly, slowly,
Passeth the corpse from the portal to-day.
Drops from the laden clouds heavily fall
Drippingly over the plume and the pall;
Murmur old folk, as the train moves along,
"Happy the dead that the rain raineth on."

Toll at the hour of prime,

Matin, and vesper chime,
Loved old bells from the steeple high;

Rolling, like holy waves,

Over the lowly graves,
Floating up, prayer-fraught, into the sky.

Solemn the lesson your lightest notes teach; Stern is the preaching your iron tongues preach; Ringing in life from the bud to the bloom, Ringing the dead to their rest in the tomb.

Peal out evermore—

Peal as ye peal'd of yore, Brave old bells, on each Sabbath-day.

In sunshine and gladness,

Through clouds and through sadness, Bridal and burial have both pass'd away.

Tell us life's pleasures with death are still rife:
Tell us that death ever leadeth to life;
Life is our labour, and death is our rest:
If happy the living, the dead are the blest.

THE MAYS OF OLD.
By Mrs. Hervey.

Self-lost in wonder of the May,

We stood where woods and waters meet,

The bounding wave and dashing spray
Had rein'd our eager feet;

Eve's dying breeze swept dale and hill,

And, with the breeze, our souls grew still.

In thought we leap'd yon gulf of time
Between us and our childhood roll'd;

Once more the hawthorn boughs we climb
In those lost Mays of old.

Each leaf had then some truth to teach,

And life no flower beyond our reach.

O dawn that had so swift a flight!

O dreamless night! O blessed day!
No winter then—no loss of light;

The hollies bloom'd like May.
Fresh currents 'neath the ice did glide,
And Spring was in the Brumal tide.

Behold a change! Those years are fled:
May-blossoms by an altar stand;

Our feet o'er scatter'd garlands tread—
I lead thee by the hand:

Around, white-wing'd, the angels play;

God is our guide, and heaven our way.

Life passes—not as seasons pass:

The leaves fell from us, not the flowers.

The days of earth died down like grass,
There dropp'd no blight on ours.

Back—back to God, like martyrs, flew

The years that died to prove us true.

Together mark'd we sets of sun.

Together watch'd the stars upwaking;
Each, among mortals, saw but one:
j O vow, that knew no breaking!

While yet our souls hold fast their May,
Earth is no older—not a day.

Our path a new-spun web hath cross'd;

New life a newer impulse craves:
Old thoughts are dead, old feelings lost,—

We walk among their graves.
O we are old! No beauty lives
Save that the immortal spirit gives.

The same rath leaves are o'er us bending;

Once more the hawthorn on the bough Through all her blooms a voice is sending :—

"True souls, how fare ye now?
Are all life's joys, of May-time born,
Lost in the piercings of the thorn?"

Companion of this new-born Spring—
O darling of each lost dead May!

Is joy struck dumb? Hath love took wing?
Or hath our hope grown gray?

Not so! not so! All, all are here,

Fresh as the childhood of the year!

Thou world of beauty and delight!

Than ours no younger souls shall soar
Up from thy sod, till day turn night,

And moons wax great no more.
Come, frost of age—come, withering blast,
We do defy ye—to the last!

Time cannot touch us, dear, nor take
From our strung hearts one chord away,

Which, struck by Love's strong hand, doth make
The music of the May!

Each tone still speaks its heavenly birth,

God's echo on this lower earth.

O blessed are the young in heart!

They whom no mortal winter's chill, In heaven's sight shall walk apart

Though earth with darkness fill; And, by the light of lost Spring days, Find God among the silent ways!

LINES WRITTEN ON SUNDAY MORNING.

By ROBERT SOUTHEY.

Go thou and seek the house of prayer!
I to the woodlands wend, and there,
In lovely nature see the God of Love.

The swelling organ's peal

Wakes not my soul to zeal,
Like the sweet music of the vernal grove.
The gorgeous altar and the mystic vest
Excite not such devotion in my breast,

As where the noontide beam

Flash'd from some broken stream,
Vibrates on the dazzled sight;
Or where the cloud suspended rain
Sweeps in shadows o'er the plain;
Or when reclining on the cliffs huge height
I mark the billows burst in silver light.

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