Nor Fate his calm and humble hopes beguiled; | He mourned no recreant friend nor mistress coy, For on his vows the blameless Phoebe smiled, And her alone he loved, and loved her from a child. No jealousy their dawn of love o'ercast, worm Of pride, each bud of joy industrious to deform. The wight, whose tale these artless lines unfold, And one long summer day of indolence and mirth. And yet poor Edwin was no vulgar boy; the lad: Some deemed him wondrous wise, and some believed him mad. But why should I his childish feats display? Concourse and noise and toil he ever fled; Nor cared to mingle in the clamorous fray Of squabbling imps; but to the forest sped, Or roamed at large the lonely mountain's head, Or, where the maze of some bewildered stream To deep untrodden groves his footsteps led, There would he wander wild, till Phoebus' beam, Shot from the western cliff, released the weary team. The exploit of strength, dexterity, or speed, To work the woe of any living thing, Tyrant far less, or traitor of the field; And sure the sylvan reign unbloody joy might yield. Lo! where the stripling, rapt in wonder, roves Beneath the precipice o'erhung with pine ; And sees, on high, amidst the encircling groves, From cliff to cliff the foaming torrents shine, While waters, woods, and winds, in concert join, And Echo swells the chorus to the skies. Would Edwin this majestic scene resign For aught the huntsman's puny craft supplies? Ah! no he better knows great Nature's charms to prize. And oft he traced the uplands, to survey, When o'er the sky advanced the kindling dawn, The crimson cloud, blue main, and mountain gray, And lake, dim gleaming on the smoky lawn: Far to the west the long, long vale withdrawn, While twilight loves to linger for a while; And now he faintly kens the bounding fawn, And villager abroad at early toil. But, lo! the Sun appears! and heaven, earth, ocean, smile. And oft the craggy cliff he loved to climb, When all in mist the world below was lost. What dreadful pleasure! there to stand sub - What meant its iron stroke? Why caught each man his blade? Known well to all, That Freedom stood in peril of so Were patriots then, Toll! Roland, toll! Amen! So let it be; For a true king is he Who keeps his people free. Toll! Roland, toll! This side the sea! No longer they, but we, Have now such need of thee! Toll! Roland, toll! And let thy iron throat Till Freedom's perils be outbraved, THEODORE TILTON. TOLL, THEN, NO MORE! TOLL for the dead, toll, toll ! No, no! Ring out, ye bells, ring out and shout. For they the pearly gates have entered in, And they no more shall sin, Ring out, ye bells, ring, ring! Toll for the living, toll! No, no! Ring out, ye bells, ring out and shout, For they do His work tho' midst toil and din, They, too, the goal shall win, Ring out, ye bells, ring, ring! Toll for the coming, toll! No, no! Ring out, ye bells, ring out and shout, For it is theirs to conquer, theirs to win The final entering in, Ring out, ye bells, ring, ring! Toll, then, no more, ye bells! No, no! Ring out, O bells, ring out and shout: The Was, the Is, the Shall Be, and all men Are in His hand! Amen! Ring out, ye bells, ring, ring! And let the brown meadow-lark's note as he ranges | Not like thin ghosts or disembodied creatures, Come over, come over to me. Yet birds' clearest carol by fall or by swelling No magical sense conveys, And bells have forgotten their old art of telling The fortune of future days. "Turn again, turn again," once they rang cheerily While a boy listened alone: Made his heart yearn again, musing so wearily All by himself on a stone. Poor bells! I forgive you; your good days are over, And mine, they are yet to be; But with thy bones, and flesh, and limbs, and features. By oath to tell the secrets of thy trade, Then say what secret melody was hidden In Memnon's statue, which at sunrise played? No listening, no longing, shall aught, aught dis- Perhaps thou wert a priest, if so, my struggles Are vain, for priestcraft never owns its juggles. |