The Tower of Babel.
ONCE, many centuries ago,
Men tried to build a tower so high
That rising upward, round on round,
Its pinnacle should reach the sky.
And as they toiled and built and dreamed and planned,
What hopes went upward with the rising stone!
That daring feet ere long should mount and stand
Upon the golden stairway to the throne.
And then a dire confusion fell
Upon the workers, building there.
Men called and shouted each to each
With strange, uncomprehended speech,
And what it meant no one could tell;
So they left building in despair.
Yet in their hearts still lived the hope that they
Might scale the ramparts of the sky some day.
Sometimes our souls expand and glow
With holy visions bright and pure;
But when from these deep vales below
We proudly try to climb and reach
With clumsy masonry of speech,
And rounds of rhyme that shall endure,
That sky-born thing, that heavenly theme,
Touched only by a prayer or dream,
A swift confusion o'er us flies,
And sudden chills our hands benumb.
Our minds are blurred, our tongues are dumb,
The vision fades away and dies.
Yet still we dream that song some day may be
Rung through the arches of Eternity.
The Old Bell.
THE vines have grown so thick and twined so strong,
With clinging hold, about the bell that swings
In the old tower, that now it never rings.
No one has heard its voice for seasons long.
Sit by me on the broken belfry stair,
And I will tell the simple tale to you
Of those whose graves through yonder arch you view,
Scattered about the churchyard, here and there.
Ah me! How closely memory's tendrils twine
About the heart, and choke the words that spring.
It only throbs, the touch half-answering,
Like this old bell, held speechless by the vine.