CURFEW SONG OF ENGLAND by FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS

HARK! from the dim church-tower,
The deep, slow curfew's chime!
A heavy sound unto hall and bower,
In England's olden time!
Sadly 'twas heard by him who came
From the fields of his toil at night,
And who might not see his own hearth's flame
In his children's eyes make light.

Sadly and sternly heard
As it quenched the wood-fire's glow,
Which had cheered the board, with the mirthful word,
And the red wine's foaming flow;
Until that sullen, booming knell,
Flung out from every fane,
On harp and lip, and spirit fell,
With a weight, and with a chain.

Woe for the wanderer then
In the wild-deer's forests far!
No cottage-lamp, to the haunts of men,
Might guide him as a star.
And woe for him whose wakeful soul,
With lone aspirings filled,
Would have lived o'er some immortal scroll,
While the sounds of earth were stilled.

And yet a deeper woe,
For the watchers by the bed,
Where the fondly loved, in pain lay low,
And rest forsook the head.
For the mother, doomed @3unseen@1 to keep
By the dying babe her place,
And to feel its flitting pulse, and weep,
Yet not behold its face!

Darkness, in chieftain's hall!
Darkness, in peasant's cot!
While Freedom, under that shadowy pall,
Sat mourning o'er her lot.
Oh! the fireside's peace we well may prize,
For blood hath flowed like rain,
Poured forth to make sweet sanctuaries
Of England's homes again!

Heap the yule-fagots high,
Till the red light fills the room!
It is home's own hour, when the stormy sky
Grows thick with evening gloom.
Gather ye round the holy hearth,
And by its gladdening blaze,
Unto thankful bliss we will change our mirth,
With a thought of the olden days.

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