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The church
bells toll a melancholy round,
Calling the people to
some other prayers,
Some other gloominess, more
dreadful cares,
More harkening to the sermon's horrid
sound.
Surely the mind of man is closely bound
In
some blind spell: seeing that each one tears
Himself
from fireside joys and Lydian airs,
And converse high
of those with glory crowned.
Still, still they toll,
and I should feel a damp,
A chill as from a tomb, did
I not know
That they are dying like an outburnt lamp,
-
That 'tis their sighing, wailing, ere they go
Into oblivion -that fresh flowers will grow,
And many
glories of immortal stamp.
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