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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 Marcartby.

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 cir

cles 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 i 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 swellsQuivering 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 fledThe father has gone to his children—the old Cam

panaro 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 chro

nicles 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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