O HAPPY bells that thrill the air
Of tranquil English summer-eves,
When stirless hang the aspen leaves,
And Silence listens everywhere.
And sinks and swells the tender chime,
Sad, as regret for buried fears,
Sweet, as repentant yearning tears—
The fit voice of the holy time.
O wond’rous voice! O mystic sound!
We listen, and our thoughts aspire
Like spiritual flame, from fire
That idly smoulders on the ground.
Forgotten longings have new birth
For better, purer, nobler life,
Lifted above the noisy strife
That drowns the music of this earth.
And human sorrow seems to be
A link unto diviner things,
The budding of the spirit’s wings
That only thus can soar—and see.
The twilight fades—the sweet bells cease,
The common world’s come back again,
But for a little space, its pain
And weariness are steep’d in peace.
MIRROR.
I SEE myself reflected in thine eyes,
The dainty mirrors set in golden frame
Of eyelash, quiver with a sweet surprise,
And most ingenuous shame.
Like Eve, who hid her from the dread command
Deep in the dewy blooms of paradise;
So thy shy soul, love calling, fears to stand
Discover’d at thine eyes.
Or, like a tender little fawn, which lies
Asleep amid the fern, and waking, hears
Some careless footstep drawing near, and flies,
Yet knows not what she fears.