The minster bell swings on the gale,
And saddens the vale with its solemn toll,
That passeth away like a passing soul—
Pulse after pulse still diminishing on,
Till another rings forth for the dead and gone.
The minute-sound of that mourning bell
Is the lord’s of the valley—the rich man’s knell:
While it swells o’er his lawns and his woodlands bright,
He breathes not, hears not, nor sees the light:
On the couch of his ease he lies stiff and wan—