POETRY.
THE BELLS.
ON one of these still Autumn days,
I know not where, I know not when, Far o'er the hills beyond the haze I lighted on a lonely glen.
Brushing the bracken with my knees, Stirring the leaves that strewed the ground. Amid the silent forest-trees I seemed the only living sound.
And lo! an isle of palm and date Shone through the western waste afar, And like a seal above the gate Of sunset hung a milk-white star.
And, statelier than the spires of Is,* In the blue ocean overhead I saw the forme of those in bliss, The calm Elysium of the dead.
And falling faintly on mine ears I seemed to hear the church-bells chime, Sweeter than in the primrose years Of youth, and love's delightful prime.
And, two by two, in tranquil stoles, With palms of peace I saw them go, The pilgrim feet of patient souls Made pure by suffering here below.
Singing of love they passed. And then The vision vanished as it rose, And high above the lonely glen
I heard the gates of azure close.
GASCOIGNE HACKIE.
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