Classic Poem

High in the old cathedral tower they hung, —
Four ancient bells, the bronze arpeggio
That called to prayer the gray monks long ago,
And marked the hour while mass was said and sung.
Over a land of fragrant flowers they flung
Petals of music that were wont to blow
Out of the rose of Time, whereof we know
Naught save how sweet it is and ever young.

Listen! across the midnight comes their call, —
Twelve in succession sound the bell-notes clear:
A day has gone; another day, begun.
Awake, I hear them saying as they fall:
Vale, Hispania! Day of shadows drear!
Ave, America! Day of joy and sun!