O hark, O hear! how thin and clear,
And thinner, clearer, further going;
O sweet and far, from cliff and scar,
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying:
Blow, bugle; answer echoes, dying, dying, dying.
O love, they die in yon rich sky,
They faint on hill or field or river: Our echoes roll from soul to soul,
And grow forever and forever.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
And answer echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.
THOUGH rudely blows the wintry blast,
And sifting snows fall white and fast,
Mark Haley drives along the street,
Perch'd high upon his wagon seat:
His sombre face the storm defies,
And thus from morn till eve he cries, -
"Charco' charco'!"
While echo faint and far replies,
"Hark, O! hark, O!"
The dust begrimes his ancient hat;
His coat is darker far than that:
'Tis odd to see his sooty form
All speckled with the feathery storm;
Yet in his honest bosom lies
Nor spot nor speck, though still he cries,
Thus all the cold and wintry day
He labours much for little pay;
Yet feels no less of happiness
Than many a richer man, I guess,
When through the shades of eve he spies
The light of his own home, and cries,
"Charco' charco'!"
And Martha from the door replies,
"Charco'!"-" Mark, ho! - Such joy abounds When he has closed his daily rounds.
The hearth is warm, the fire is bright;
And, while his hand, wash'd clean and white,
Holds Martha's tender hand once more,
His glowing face bends fondly o'er
The crib wherein his darling lies;
And in a coaxing tone he cries,
"Charco' charco'!"
And baby with a laugh replies,"Ah, go! ah, go!"
"Charco'!". "Ah, go!
The mother's heart with gladness bounds.
Then honour'd be the charcoal man!
Though dusky as an African,
'Tis not for you, that chance to be
A little better clad than he,
His honest manhood to despise,
Although from morn till eve he cries,
"Charco' charco'!"
How sweet the chime of Sabbath bells!
Each one its creed in music tells,
In tones that float upon the air,
As soft as song, and pure as prayer;
And I will put in simple rhyme
The language of the golden chime:
My happy heart with rapture swells
Responsive to the bells sweet bells.
"In deeds of love excel - excel,"
Chimed out from ivied towers a bell;
"This is the Church not built on sands,
Emblem of one not built with hands:
Its forms and sacred rites revere;
Come worship here- come worship here;
Its rituals and faith excel — excel,”
Chimed out th' Episcopalian bell.
"O, heed the ancient landmarks well,”
In solemn tones exclaim'd a bell;
"No progress made by mortal man
Can change the just, eternal plan:
With God there can be nothing new;
Ignore the false, embrace the true
While all is well is well-is well,"
Peal'd out the good old Dutch Church bell.
"O swell, ye purifying waters, swell,"
In mellow tones rang out a bell;
Though faith alone in Christ can save,
Man must be plunged beneath the wave,
To show the world unfaltering faith
In what the sacred Scripture saith:
O swell, ye rising waters, swell,"
Peal'd out the clear-toned Baptist bell.
"Not faith alone, but works as well,
Must test the soul," said a soft bell;
"Come here, and cast aside your load,
And work your way along the road,
With faith in God, and faith in man,
And hope in Christ, where hope began:
Do well do well - do well
do well," Peal'd forth the Unitarian bell.
"Farewell! farewell! base world, farewell,"
In gloomy tones exclaim'd a bell;
"Life is a boon to mortals given,
To fit the soul for bliss in Heaven:
Do not invoke the avenging rod;
Come here, and learn the way to God:
Say to the world farewell farewell!"
Peal'd out the Presbyterian bell.
"In after life there is no Hell!"
In raptures rang a cheerful bell;
"Look up to Heaven this holy day,
Where angels wait to lead the way;
There are no fires, no fiends, to blight
The future life; be just, do right:
No Hell! no Hell! no Hell! no Hell!"
Rang out the Universalist bell.
"To all the truth we tell we tell,"
Shouted in ecstasies a bell;
"Come all ye weary wanderers, see!
Our Lord has made salvation free:
Repent! believe! have faith! and then
Be saved, and praise the Lord. Amen.
Salvation's free we tell — we tell,”
Shouted the Methodistic bell.
OVER the hill the farm-boy goes:
His shadow lengthens along the land,
A giant staff in giant hand;
In the poplar-tree above the spring
The katydid begins to sing;
The early dews are falling:
Into the stone-heap darts the mink,
The swallows skim the river's brink,
And home to the woodland fly the crows,
When over the hill the farm-boy goes,
"Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'! co'!"
Further, further over the hill,
Faintly calling, calling still,
"Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'!"
Into the yard the farmer goes,
With grateful heart, at the close of day:
Harness and chain are hung away;
In the wagon-shed stand yoke and plough;
The straw's in the stack, the hay in the mow;
The cooling dews are falling:
The friendly sheep his welcome bleat,
The pigs come grunting to his feet,
The whinnying mare her master knows,
When into the yard the farmer goes,
"Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'! co'!"
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