Floats the soft cadence of the church-tower bells;[BB]
Bright shines the Sun, as if his beams would wake[105]
The tender insects sleeping in their cells;
Bright shines the Sun—and not a breeze to shake
The drops that tip[106] the melting icicles.
O, enter now his temple gate!
Inviting words—perchance already flung
(As the crowd press devoutly down the aisle
Of some old Minster's venerable pile)
From voices into zealous passion stung,