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THE DEPARTED.

195

The departed !—the departed !

They visit us in dreams,
And they glide above our memories,

Like shadows over streams ;-
But where the cheerful lights of home

In constant lustre burn,
The departed—the departed

Can never more return !

· THE CHIMES OF ENGLAND.

BY ARTHUR CLEAVELAND COX.

Upon the bells. Zechariah, 14: 20.

The chimes, the chimes of Motherland,

Of England green and old,
That out from fane and ivied tower

A thousand years have tollid;
How glorious must their music be

As breaks the hallowed day, And calleth with a seraph's voice

A nation up to pray !

Those chimes that tell a thousand tales,

Sweet tales of olden time! And ring a thousand memories

At vesper, and at prime; At bridal and at burial,

For cottager and kingThose chimes—those glorious Christian chimes,

How blessedly they ring!

THE CHIMES OF ENGLAND.

197

Those chimes, those chimes of Motherland,

Upon a Christmas morn, Outbreaking, as the angels did,

For a Redeemer born;
How merrily they call afar,

To cot and baron's hall,
With holly deck'd and mistletoe,

To keep the festival !

The chimes of England, how they peal

From tower and gothic pile,
Where hymn and swelling anthem fill

The dim cathedral aisle ;
Where windows bathe the holy light

On priestly heads that falls,
And stain the florid tracery

And banner-dighted walls !

And then, those Easter bells, in Spring !

Those glorious Easter chimes ! How loyally they hail thee round,

Old Queen of holy times !
From hill to hill, like sentinels,

Responsively they cry,
And sing the rising of the Lord,

From vale to mountain high.

198

THE CHIMES OF ENGLAND.

I love ye-chimes of Motherland,

With all this soul of mine,
And bless the Lord that I am sprung

Of good old English line !
And like a son I sing the lay

That England's glory tells ;
For she is lovely to the LORD,

For you, ye Christian bells !

And heir of her ancestral fame,

And happy in my birth,
Thee too I love, my Forest-land,

The joy of all the earth;
For thine thy mother's voice shall be,

And here—where God is king,
With English chimes, from Christian spires,

The wilderness shall ring.

LINES

Suggested by a picture of Washington Allston.

BY ISAAC MCLELLAN.

The tender Twilight with a crimson cheek Leans on the breast of Eve. The wayward Wind Hath folded her fleet pinions, and gone down To slumber hy the darkened woods—the herds Have left their pastures, where the sward grows green And lofty by the river's sedgy brink, And slow are winding home. Hark, from afar Their tinkling bells sound through the dusky glade And forest-openings, with a pleasant sound; While answering Echo from the distant hill, Sends back the music of the herdsman's horn.

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