THE CHIMES
On fair Lake Como's sunny brink,
An ancient monastery stood
Close to the mountain's steep ascent,
As nestling 'neath its snowy hood.
And there a pale young artisan
His cunning plied; a wondrous chime
He sought to frame, that those who loved
The beauty of that molten rhyme
Within the valley's breadth should hear
Pealing at morn and even clear.
For years he toiled, content if he
At last might frame a chime so sweet
That pilgrims oft would silent pause
To hear the music glad repeat.
Borne o'er the tranquil waters' reach
And bringing swift unto the heart
Its tones of warning, praise, and love,
That nevermore should then depart.
Such was the thought he wove, and prayed
That his life's work be holy made.
The day came when that perfect chime
Was placed aloft, its song to wing
Forth o'er the waters' silent reach
And to the convent's roof to bring
The lost and wayworn traveller from
The busy haunts of world and strife,
Back, where the calm of prayer might prove
The guide-post to Eternal life!
Then was the artisan as one
Whose dearest life-work, here, was done.
Not so, howe'er! 'Twas yet to be
A lifelong task—a path to lead
Through many a land, in futile search
O'er stony ways where feet should bleed.
Not yet his soul's high guerdon find—
The prize his hands had placed aloft.
How rarely here on earth we see
Life's morning fill its promise soft.
Not yet was he to find his rest
Beside Lake Como's lovely breast.
A savage horde o'erran the land
And bore away the prizéd chime;
Afar from peaceful Como's side,
To some unknown and distant clime.
In vain the artisan complained
Beneath a fate unkind; he drew
No comfort from lament or prayer,
For peace no more his hearthstone knew.
Then, as one day he brooding mused
And consolation sweet refused,
He seemed to see before his eyes
A land outspread, wherein his feet
Should wander, seeking ever there
His loved and lost—his chime so sweet,
He rose at once; he sought no aid;
But bowed his head in silent prayer;
Then from his home he straightway passed
That no one might his purpose share.
And leaving home and rest that day
With breaking heart went on his way.
Whene'er he heard, in foreign land,
Some wondrous story of a chime
Whose tones were liquid notes of song,
Whose bells rang out a gladsome rhyme,
He journeyed to that storied place,
Nor paused till he should reach the spot,—
Only to find his quest in vain,
While yet those bells were ne'er forgot.
Each day his soul went up in prayer
That those clear chimes might pierce the air!
Thus journeyed he for many a year
While locks of gold had turned to grey
Till in a distant land he strayed
And heard at close of summer day
The old sweet song rung by his chime
He long had listened for in vain!
Quickly rose tears in lifted eyes,
Quickly his heart renounced its pain!
"O loved and lost! for many a day
You've called me from my youth away!"
For now on foreign strand he waits
Alone in age—alone in kin,
Listening as listens one who bides
Outside of Heaven, to praise within.
Not vain his search! not lost his love!
He feels once more the old-time throb
Ere cruel foes his prize had ta'en;
No more may they his treasure rob!
His life went forth in one glad cry
Beneath that far-off, alien sky!
'Twas ended—all the tender search;
The hours of pain and sleepless toil;
There, where no loved his hand might clasp;
There, on that wild and foreign soil.
But deep within his heart was writ
His purpose pure; his steadfast search.
And lo! his chime still calls to prayer,
And still peals forth from ivied church.
The bells once blessed by saintly hands
Now call, in Limerick, God's commands!
My story's done—what need to say
He sleeps as well and sweetly there
Beneath that arch of foreign sky
As in his native land so fair.
He found, ere death had met his feet
The prize he sought with spirit brave,
And finding was content to lie
Afar from Como in his grave.
Love was the goal that led his feet
To peace and deathless calm replete.
The chimes? Ah, well, perhaps they peal
No less the sweetly that their note
In alien lands the tidings bring;
They still to God their praise devote,
And though their maker no more hears
The liquid music of each tone,
They speak to those whose living needs
Make of the chimes their very own.
Though hand that made is turned to clay,
His work—the chimes—lives on alway!