Till, ringing, singing on its way, The world revolved from night to day, A chant sublime. Of peace on earth, good-will to men! Then from each black, accursed mouth The carols drowned Of peace on earth, good-will to men! It was as if an earthquake rent The households born Of peace on earth, good-will to men! And in despair I bowed my head; "There is no peace on earth," I said; "For hate is strong, And mocks the song Of peace on earth, good-will to men!" Then pealed the bells more loud and deep: "God is not dead; nor doth he sleep! The Wrong shall fail, The Right prevail, With peace on earth, good-will to men!" THE WIND OVER THE CHIMNEY. Written April 12, 1864. SEE, the fire is sinking low, While above them still I cower, While a moment more I linger, Though the clock, with lifted finger, Points beyond the midnight hour. Sings the blackened log a tune From a school-boy at his play, When they both were young together, Heart of youth and summer weather Making all their holiday. And the night-wind rising, hark! In the midnight and the snow, Every quivering tongue of flame Seems to murmur some great name, Seems to say to me, "Aspire!" But the night-wind answers, "Hollow Are the visions that you follow, Into darkness sinks your fire!" Then the flicker of the blaze Gleams on volumes of old days, Written by masters of the art, Loud through whose majestic pages Rolls the melody of ages, Throb the harp-strings of the heart. And again the tongues of flame Start exulting and exclaim: "These are prophets, bards, and seers; In the horoscope of nations, Like ascendant constellations, But the night-wind cries: "Despair! These are but the flying sparks. "Dust are all the hands that wrought; Suddenly the flame sinks down; And alone the night-wind drear Clamors louder, wilder, vaguer,— ""Tis the brand of Meleager Dying on the hearth-stone here!" And I answer, 66 Though it be, Why should that discomfort me? No endeavor is in vain Its reward is in the doing, Is the prize the vanquished gain." THE BELLS OF LYNN. HEARD AT NAHANT. Written at Nahant, July 29, 1859. O CURFEW of the setting sun! O Bells of Lynn! O requiem of the dying day! O Bells of Lynn ! From the dark belfries of yon cloud - cathedral wafted, Your sounds aerial seem to float, O Bells of Lynn! Borne on the evening wind across the crimson twi light, O'er land and sea they rise and fall, O Bells of Lynn! The fisherman in his boat, far out beyond the headland, Listens, and leisurely rows ashore, O Bells of Lynn ! Over the shining sands the wandering cattle home ward Follow each other at your call, O Bells of Lynn! The distant lighthouse hears, and with his flaming signal Answers you, passing the watchword on, O Bells of Lynn! And down the darkening coast run the tumultuous surges, And clap their hands, and shout to you, O Bells of Lynn ! Till from the shuddering sea, with your wild incantations, Ye summon up the spectral moon, O Bells of Lynn! And startled at the sight, like the weird woman of Endor, Ye cry aloud, and then are still, O Bells of Lynn ! KILLED AT THE FORD. Written January 14, 1866. HE is dead, the beautiful youth, The heart of honor, the tongue of truth, Whose voice was blithe as a bugle-call, Whom all eyes followed with one consent, The cheer of whose laugh, and whose pleasant word, Hushed all murmurs of discontent. |