The Bells of Ardo
By wide gray orchards girdled,
And cloistered deep in vines,
Remote stood ancient Ardo
Amid the Apennines.
Below her banded belfries
That loomed above the land
For weeks gaunt Plague and Famine
Had walked with linkèd hand.
Until, when neared the Yule-tide,
On pale lips swooned the prayer,
And only sounds of wailing
Swept down the bitter air.
No heart had any ringer
To sound the joyful bells;
The soaring campanile
Pealed naught but burial knells.
So when the Christmas sunlight
Scattered the chill white haze
The sorely scourgèd people
Were smitten with amaze
Hearing from San Stefano,—
A spire and shrine forlorn,—
A glorious jubilate
Salute the startled morn.
Fast flocked the folk, and wonder
Swelled high that dawning hour,
For unseen hands were swinging
The bells within the tower.
And ’twixt their rhythmic chiming,
Word upon precious word,
A vibrant voice of promise
In solemn wise was heard;
“This day,” it cried, “my people,
The cruel curse shall cease,
And there shall fall upon you
My benison of peace!”