THE CATHEDRAL BELL AND ITS RIVAL.
IRIARTE.
In a renowned cathedral hung a bell,
The pride of all the country far and near;
A bell whose deep vibrations never fell
Save on the greatest church-days of the year.
Then for some moments brief the air was thrilled
By some deep strokes with solemn pause between;
The heart devout with pious awe was filled,
And sinners felt repentance swift and keen.
Within a neighboring hamlet poor and small,
With crumbling belfry tottering to its fall,
There stood a paltry chapel low and mean;
A cracked and rusty cow-bell hung therein,
Harsh and discordant, but the sexton sly,
Only upon the solemn days and high,
Six times a year at most, its voice awoke,
Like the cathedral bell with solemn stroke.
This strange reserve, in parish bells unknown,
Gave to the wretched bell a high renown.
Its jangling equalled to the rustic’s ear
The tones majestic of its grand compeer.
Pretentious, owl-like silence oft supplies
The lack of wit in those accounted wise.
“Be swift to listen and be slow to speak,”
If a high name for wisdom you would seek.