THE BELLS OF NOTRE DAME.
BY ADA IDDINGS GALE.
Thy deep tones burden all the air
And hearing, strangest thoughts are mine;
Thou’rt calling all the world to prayer,
To contemplation all divine.
Fled are the pageants of the past
That once turned at thy deep voiced calls,
In glooms doth stand the palace vast,
And silent are its splendid halls.
The galaxy of kings and queens,
Of courtiers—maids of honor fair,
The glittering robe of costly sheen,
The tossing plume, the jewel rare,
The wild retainers in their glee,
That passed unheeded, thy sad tone;
Alas! that life so frail should be
By moulded brass and iron outdone.
Beneath thy chimes passed pomp of pride,
Here many a royal love hath come,
Whose beauties long since faded—died,
Whose dulcet voice is long since dumb.
Thou rang’st the royal infant’s birth,
Thou tolled’st above the royal bier:
Kings, potentates have sunk to earth—
Still art thou speaking calmly here.
Still speak’st above the noise and din
Of the fair city’s glittering sweep—
Thy deep, pathetic tones do win
My very soul—I list and weep.
Thou only art eternal here,
Thy voice the only voice that stays,
Out-ringing, far-toned, deep and clear—
Unmeasured is thy length of days.
Thrones crumble—empires pass away,
And great republics spring to place;
If but men better seem to-day,
Why mourn the faults of age or race?
Why mourn the sad and bitter past,
If but from it the perfect flower
Of justice springeth up at last
To sweeten all the present hour?
Why mourn that gilded thrones should fall,
And jeweled crowns forget to shine,
Since Right will triumph over all,
Moved onward by a power divine?