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And endless prayer, and crucifix, and shrine,
And all religion's dower,

And thronging worshippers shall yet be thine!—
O, but to see that hour!

And who shall smite thee then ?--and who shall see Thy second glory o'er?

When they who make thee free themselves are free, To fall no more.

Denis Florence Maccarthy.

BLESSING THE BELLS.

(From the "Bell Founder.")

Now they enter, and now more divinely the Saints' painted effigies smile,

Now the Acolytes bearing lit tapers move solemnly down through the aisle,

Now the Thurifer swings the rich censer, and the white-curling vapour up floats,

And hangs round the deep-pealing organ, and blends with the tremulous notes.

In a white shining alb comes the Abbot, and he circles the bells round about,

And with oil, and with salt, and with water, they are purified inside and out;

They are mark'd with Christ's mystical symbol, while

the priests and the choristers sing,

And are bless'd in the name of that God to whose honour they ever shall ring.

Toll, toll! with a rapid vibration, with a melody silv'ry and strong,

The bells from the sound-shaken belfry are singing their first maiden song;

Not now for the dead or the living, or the triumphs of peace or of strife,

But a quick joyous outburst of jubilee full of their newly-felt life.

Rapid, more rapid, the clapper rebounds from the round of the bells

Far and more far through the valley the intertwined melody swells

Quivering and broken the atmosphere trembles and twinkles around,

Like the eyes and the hearts of the hearers that glisten and beat to the sound.

THE BELL-FOUNDER FINDS HIS LOST BELLS.

A BARK bound for Erin lay waiting, he enter'd like one in a dream;

Fair winds in the full purple sails led him soon to the Shannon's broad stream.

'Twas an evening that Florence might envy, so rich was the lemon-hued air,

As it lay on lone Scattery's island, or lit the green mountains of Clare;

The wide-spreading old giant river roll'd his waters as smooth and as still

As if Oonagh, with all her bright nymphs, had come down from the far fairy hill,

To fling her enchantments around on the mountains, the air, and the tide,

And to soothe the worn heart of the old man who look'd from the dark vessel's side.

Borne on the current, the vessel glides smoothly but swiftly away,

By Carrigaholt, and by many a green sloping headland and bay,

'Twixt Cratloe's blue hills and green woods, and the soft sunny shores of Tervoe,

And now the fair city of Limerick spreads out on the broad bank below;

Still nearer and nearer approaching, the mariners look o'er the town,

The old man sees nought but St. Mary's square tower, with its battlements brown.

He listens as yet all is silent, but now, with a sudden surprise,

A rich peal of melody rings from that tower through the clear evening skies!

One note is enough his eye moistens, his heart, long so wither'd, outswells,

He has found them-the sons of his labours-his musical, magical bells!

At each stroke all the bright past returneth, around him the sweet Arno shines,

His children-his darling Francesca-his purple-clad trellis of vines !

Leaning forward, he listens-he gazes-he hears in that wonderful strain

The long-silent voices that murmur, "Oh! leave us not, father, again !"

'Tis granted—he smiles-his eye closes-the breath from his white lips hath fled—

The father has gone to his children-the old Campanaro is dead!

FROM "THE PILLAR TOWERS OF IRELAND."

How many different rites have these gray old temples known!

To the mind what dreams are written in these chronicles of stone !

What terror and what error, what gleams of love and truth,

Have flash'd from these walls since the world was in its youth!

Here blazed the sacred fire, and, when the sun was

gone,

As a star from afar to the traveller it shone ;

And the warm blood of the victim have these gray old temples drunk,

And the death-song of the Druid and the matin of the Monk.

Here was placed the holy chalice that held the sacred wine,

And the gold cross from the altar, and the relics from the shrine,

And the mitre shining brighter, with its diamonds, than the East,

And the crosier of the Pontiff, and the vestments of the Priest !

Where blazed the sacred fire, rung out the vesper

bell,

Where the fugitive found shelter, became the hermit's

cell;

And hope hung out its symbol to the innocent and

good,

For the Cross o'er the moss of the pointed summit stood!

There may it stand for ever, while this symbol doth impart

To the mind one glorious vision, or one proud throb to the heart;

While the breast needeth rest may these gray old temples last,

Bright prophets of the future, as preachers of the past!

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