Читать книгу Poems - Julia C. R. Dorr - Страница 39

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“The great bell of St. Paul’s, which

only sounds when the King is dead.”

Toll, toll, thou solemn bell! A royal head lies low, And mourners through the palace halls Slowly and sadly go. Lift up thine awful voice, Thou, silent for so long! Say that a monarch’s soul has passed To join the shadowy throng.

Toll yet again, thou bell! Mutely thine iron tongue, Prisoned within yon lofty tower, For many a year has hung. But now its mournful peal Startles a nation’s ear, And swells from listening shore to shore, That the whole world may hear.

A whisper from the past Blends with each solemn tone That from those brazen lips of thine Upon the air is thrown. Never had trumpet’s peal, On clarion sounding shrill, Such power as that deep undertone The listener’s heart to thrill.

Come, tell us tales, thou bell, Of those of old renown, Those sturdy warrior kings who fought For sceptre and for crown. Tell of the lion-hearts Whose pulses moved the world; Whose banners flew so swift and far, O’er land and sea unfurled!

From out the buried years, From many a vaulted tomb, Whence neither pomp nor power could chase The dim, sepulchral gloom, Lo, now, a pale, proud line, They glide before our eyes!— Art thou a wizard, mighty bell, To bid the dead arise?

But toll, toll on, thou bell! Toll for the royal dead; Toll—for the hand now sceptreless; Toll—for the crownless head; Toll—for the human heart With all its loves and woes; Toll—for the soul that passes now Unto its long repose!