Poems (Southey)/Volume 1/To the Chapel Bell
TO THE
CHAPEL BELL.
"Lo I, the man who erst the Muse did ask
Her deepest notes to swell the Patriot's meeds,
Am now enforced, a far unfitter task,
For cap and gown to leave my minstrel weeds;"
For yon dull noise that tinkles on the air
Bids me lay by the lyre and go to morning prayer.
Her deepest notes to swell the Patriot's meeds,
Am now enforced, a far unfitter task,
For cap and gown to leave my minstrel weeds;"
For yon dull noise that tinkles on the air
Bids me lay by the lyre and go to morning prayer.
Oh how I hate the sound! it is the Knell
That still a requiem tolls to Comfort's hour;
And loth am I, at Superstition's bell,
To quit or Morpheus or the Muse's bower:
Better to lie and dose, than gape amain,
Hearing still mumbled o'er, the same eternal strain.
That still a requiem tolls to Comfort's hour;
And loth am I, at Superstition's bell,
To quit or Morpheus or the Muse's bower:
Better to lie and dose, than gape amain,
Hearing still mumbled o'er, the same eternal strain.
Thou tedious herald of more tedious prayers,
Say hast thou ever summoned from his rest,
One being awakening to religious cares?
Or rous'd one pious transport in the breast?
Or rather, do not all reluctant creep
To linger out the hour, in listlessness or sleep!
Say hast thou ever summoned from his rest,
One being awakening to religious cares?
Or rous'd one pious transport in the breast?
Or rather, do not all reluctant creep
To linger out the hour, in listlessness or sleep!
I love the bell, that calls the poor to pray
Chiming from village church its chearful sound,
When the sun smiles on Labour's holy-day,
And all the rustic train are gather'd round,
Each deftly dizen'd in his Sunday's best
And pleas'd to hail the day of piety and rest.
Chiming from village church its chearful sound,
When the sun smiles on Labour's holy-day,
And all the rustic train are gather'd round,
Each deftly dizen'd in his Sunday's best
And pleas'd to hail the day of piety and rest.
Or when, dim shadowing o'er the face of day,
The mantling mists of even-tide rise slow,
As thro' the forest gloom I wend my way,
The minster curfew's sullen roar I know;
I pause and love its solemn toll to hear,
As made by distance soft, it dies upon the ear.
The mantling mists of even-tide rise slow,
As thro' the forest gloom I wend my way,
The minster curfew's sullen roar I know;
I pause and love its solemn toll to hear,
As made by distance soft, it dies upon the ear.
Nor not to me the unfrequent midnight knell
Tolls sternly harmonizing; on mine ear
As the deep death-fraught sounds long lingering dwell
Sick to the heart of Love and Hope and Fear
Soul-jaundiced, I do loathe Life's upland steep
And with strange envy muse the dead man's dreamless sleep.
Tolls sternly harmonizing; on mine ear
As the deep death-fraught sounds long lingering dwell
Sick to the heart of Love and Hope and Fear
Soul-jaundiced, I do loathe Life's upland steep
And with strange envy muse the dead man's dreamless sleep.
But thou, memorial of monastic gall!
What Fancy sad or lightsome hast thou given!
Thy vision-scaring sounds alone recall
The prayer that trembles on a yawn to heaven!
And this Dean's gape, and that Dean's nasal tone,
And Roman rites retain'd, tho' Roman faith be flown.
1793.
What Fancy sad or lightsome hast thou given!
Thy vision-scaring sounds alone recall
The prayer that trembles on a yawn to heaven!
And this Dean's gape, and that Dean's nasal tone,
And Roman rites retain'd, tho' Roman faith be flown.
1793.