THE AIR is hushed; the street is holy ground; | |
| Hark! The sweet bells renew their welcome sound; | |
| As one by one awakes each silent tongue, | |
| It tells the turret whence its voice is flung. | |
| |
| The Chapel, last of sublunary things | 5 |
| That shocks our echoes with the name of Kings, | |
| Whose bell, just glistening from the font and forge, | |
| Rolled its proud requiem for the second George, | |
| Solemn and swelling, as of old it rang, | |
| Flings to the wind its deep, sonorous clang;— | 10 |
| The simpler pile, that, mindful of the hour | |
| When Howe’s artillery shook its hall-built tower, | |
| Wears on its bosom, as a bride might do, | |
| The iron breastpin which the “Rebels” threw, | |
| Wakes the sharp echoes with the quivering thrill | 15 |
| Of keen vibrations, tremulous and shrill;— | |
| Aloft, suspended in the morning’s fire, | |
| Crash the vast cymbals from the Southern spire;— | |
| The Giant, standing by the elm-clad green, | |
| His white lance lifted o’er the silent scene, | 20 |
| Whirling in air his brazen goblet round, | |
| Swings from its brim the swollen floods of sound;— | |
| While, sad with memories of the olden time, | |
| The Northern Minstrel pours her tender chime, | |
| Faint, single tones, that spell their ancient song, | 25 |
| But tears still follow as they breathe along. | |
| |
| Child of the soil, whom fortune sends to range | |
| Where man and nature, faith and customs change, | |
| Borne in thy memory, each familiar tone | |
| Mourns on the winds that sigh in every zone. | 30 |
| When Ceylon sweeps thee with her perfumed breeze | |
| Through the warm billows of the Indian seas; | |
| When—ship and shadow blended both in one— | |
| Flames o’er thy mast the equatorial sun, | |
| From sparkling midnight to refulgent noon | 35 |
| Thy canvas swelling with the still monsoon; | |
| When through thy shrouds the wild tornado sings, | |
| And thy poor seabird folds her tattered wings,— | |
| Oft will delusion o’er thy senses steal, | |
| And airy echoes ring the Sabbath peal! | 40 |
| Then, dim with grateful tears, in long array | |
| Rise the fair town, the island-studded bay, | |
| Home, with its smiling board, its cheering fire, | |
| The half-choked welcome of the expecting sire, | |
| The mother’s kiss, and, still if aught remain, | 45 |
| Our whispering hearts shall aid the silent strain. | |
| Ah, let the dreamer o’er the taffrail lean | |
| To muse unheeded, and to weep unseen; | |
| Fear not the tropic’s dews, the evening’s chills, | |
| His heart lies warm among his triple hills! | 50 |
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