THE SOUTH IN ARMS.
BY REV. J. H. MARTIN.
MELT THE BELLS.
BY F. Y. ROCKETT.
| Melt the bells, melt the bells, Still the tinkling on the plain, And transmute the evening chimes Into war’s resounding rhymes, That the invaders may be slain By the bells. Melt the bells, melt the bells, That for years have called to prayer, And, instead, the cannon’s roar Shall resound the valleys o’er, That the foe may catch despair From the bells. Melt the bells, melt the bells, Though it cost a tear to part With the music they have made, Where the friends we love are laid, With pale cheek and silent heart, ’Neath the bells. Melt the bells, melt the bells, Into cannon, vast and grim, And the foe shall feel the ire From the heaving lungs of fire, And we’ll put our trust in Him, And the bells. Melt the bells, melt the bells, And when foes no more attack, And the lightning cloud of war Shall roll thunderless and far, We will melt the cannon back Into bells. Melt the bells, melt the bells, And they’ll peal a sweeter chime, And remind of all the brave Who have sunk to glory’s grave, And will sleep through coming time ’Neath the bells.[3] |