Classic Poem

Up to my window floating, from the busy city street,
I hear the hum of voices and the tread of many feet—
Fresh young children's voices, and footsteps bright and glad,
Voices worn by sorrow, and footsteps slow and sad—
Faces sweet and gentle, and faces lined with care,
Gleaming golden tresses, and locks of silvery hair.
What message do ye bring, oh, bells, across the snow,
To this poor tide of human life, so rapid in its flow?
Perchance in many hearts ye stir old memories once again;
Perchance to many eyes ye bring swift tears of silent pain;
Perchance some hearts are dead to heed the story in thy chimes—
The story angel voices told back in the olden times,
When, bending o'er the snow-clad hills, their radiant wings unfurled,
And they sung their heavenly carol above a sleeping world.

To-day 'tis the same old story the angels told of then,
Bringing the same old message to the changing hearts of men:
Striking again the same old chord upon the harp of life,
Until its ringing echoes float above all earthly strife.
Oh, bells, ye bring me a picture, as if the unseen hand
Of some strange and mystic artist had strayed from the Spirit Land,
And painted in darkened shadows a garret cold and bare.
Surely ye cannot bring a dream of gladness there,
Where the cold pale light of a candle its ghostly glimmers shed
Upon a worn and pallid face and o'er a drooping head;
And slowly fall the blinding tears upon her dreary work,
The ceaseless stitch and endless toil she knows she dare not shirk.

Peace to that weary heart!—oh, bells, it cannot be—
And her tired lips gave answer—“There is no peace for me.
My only guest is Want—'tis Want that grimly stands,
Guarding my lonely threshold, and pointing, with bony hands,
To my hearth, where no embers flicker and no cheery firelight falls
With warm and friendly greeting upon the cold blank walls.
Why do ye come to taunt me, oh, bells, with your dreams of peace?
Would I might still your echoes and bid your voices cease.
Yet once I loved your music—before the dazzling gleams
Of the city's light fell on me, and broke my childish dreams.
Those dreams and vanished faces—oh, bells, ye rouse them now,
Their memories hang like fetters around my aching brow.”
“List to the King's own message, His promise shall not fail;
Be still, poor tired heart, there's peace behind the veil.”

The picture has changed; and another, as bright as that was sad,
Shines on me through the shadows: there all is gay and glad.
Gathered around the hearth where the ruddy firelight glows,
And o'er bright merry faces its dancing flamelight throws;
Falling across the dim old room, and o'er each childish head,
Lighting up beneath their leaves the berries white and red—
I hear their joyful voices in some ballad quaint and sweet,
And their merry-hearted laughter and little dancing feet;
Surely ye bring, oh, bells, a peaceful message there?
Ah, yes, but on that hearth there stands a vacant chair.

When yester year we chimed, another little voice
Echoed across the threshold, and bade all hearts rejoice.
On the hearth a little form lingered to watch the bright logs roar,
And the music of other footsteps echoed across the floor.
A little face watched at the window the feathery snowflakes fall;
A little hand wreathed the berries upon the old oak wall.
Only a speaking silence sits in her vacant chair;
Only the snow-drifts cover her crown of golden hair.
Yet close again to the threshold, with angel wings of light,
Her unseen presence lingers upon that hearth to-night.
“The broken links on earth”—they hear her softly sing—
“Shall be bound again in Heaven, is the message of the King.”