THE MERRY BELLS OF ENGLAND by RANN KENNEDY

YOU hear, as I, the merry bells of England:
Can any country of the same extent
Boast of so many? -- in their size and tone
Differing, yet all for harmonies combined:
Cluster'd, in frequent bands, through towns and cities,
Lodgment they find in many a village tower
And tapering spire, that crowns an upland lawn,
Or peeps from grove and dell; while now and then,
Modest and low, a steeple ivy-clad,
Behind a rock, reveals its whereabout
To the lone traveller, only by their tongue.
Art's work they are, yet in their tendency,
Somewhat like nature to the human soul.
Raised up 'twixt earth and heaven, they speak of both;
They speak to all of duty and of hope --
They speak of sorrow, and of sorrow's cure.
'T is happy for a land and for its people,
When the full spirits of the young and old
Shall thus flow out in artlessness of sport.
Waters, long pent, may swell to monstrous danger,
Sullen and still, with deluge in their power.
Far otherwise 't will be, when timely vents
Give them to run in many a babbling rill
Through vales or down the rocks, and then disperse,
Yet leave a green effect on laughing fields --
Still more and more we hear those pealing bells --
How true in tone they are! . . . . . . .
Sweet bells, oft heard, and most, if their discourse
Shall meet life's daily ear, act wholesomely
Upon life's daily mind.

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