Classic Poem

Over hills and valleys,
Over prairies wide,
Quiet call the church-bells
To the altar-side.
High in old cathedrals
Chant the brazen lips,
Down the leafy by-ways
Airy pleading slips.

In his toil the worker
Pauses at the sound, —
Heaven a little nearer,
Earth a holier ground.
At the sound the Sundays
With low music fill, —
Hark! the lands are singing,
Then with prayers are still.

Softer than the church-bells
With their mellow peal,
Softer, sweeter calling,
Mystic voices steal;
All the shadowy valleys
Memory calls her own,
All the spirit's hill-tops
Listen for the tone.

Every soul that listens
Hears the secret chime, —
Bells from quiet inlands
Out of space or time;
Mother-tones will stir them,
Child-appeals will start,
Hero-deeds will set them
Ringing in the heart.

Matin calls of duty
Wake us every day;
'Mid each happy labor
Angelus says " Pray!"
Every hour that passes
Hath a vesper end,
Breathing, " One who sleeps not
Is thy constant Friend."

Every hope that wings us,
Making eagle-free,
Every shame that bows us,
Every loyalty,
Each new joy and laughter,
Sorrows old that bide, —
Are God's church-bells calling
To an altar-side.