Poems Sigourney 1834/The Sabbath Bell
THE SABBATH BELL.
Where 'mid the crowded city glide
The gorgeous trains of pomp and pride,
Till even the labouring pavement groans
As Folly's surges wear the stones,
And through the reeking air doth rise
The tide of Fashion's heartless sighs—
What speaks from tower and turret fair,
With solemn knell?
To break the despotism of care,
And fearless warn the proud to prayer?
The Sabbath Bell.
From yonder cottage-homes where meet,
Round the low eaves, the woodbine sweet,
And the young vine-flower peering through
The rustic rose-hedge rich with dew,
Pours on each passing Zephyr's breast
A gush of fragrance pure and blest;
What lures gay childhood's throngs away?
Why quit they thus at morning ray
Their native dell?
What lures them to God's temple door,
Their holy lessons conning o'er?
The Sabbath Bell?
The chastened spirit, worn with care,
That scarce can lift its burdened prayer
Above the host of toils that thrust
Its broken pinion down to dust,
That loves the path where faith doth rise
In contemplation to the skies,
Yet bowed beneath a hopeless chain
Betakes it to its task again;
What bids its rapture swell?
What brings, though tear-drops dim the eye,
Communion with its native sky?
The Sabbath Bell.
And thou, whose glance of rapid ray
Dost lightly scan this simple lay,
When to thy view yon astral spark,
And earthly skies and suns are dark,
What to the fair and lighted hall
Where cherished friends hold festival;
What to the pensive, listening ear,
Shall thy death-tidings tell?
And summon to thy lowly bier
The bursting sigh, the bitter tear?
The Sabbath Bell.