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Denis Florence MacCarthy
This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 77 pages of information about Poems.

The Bell is tolling on, and deep,
  Deep and drear into my heart
  All its bitter accents dart. 
Peace! sad chime, I will not weep—­
  What is there within thy tone,
  That should wring my heart alone,
  Rive it with this endless moan? 
Peace! and let past sorrows sleep!

Fling your music on the breeze,
  Mock the sighing of the willows,
  Mock the lapping of the billows,
Mock not human sympathies;
  Slow chime, sad chime, mock me not,
  With that loved voice ne’er forgot,
  Flooding me with tears blood-hot;
Mock not soul-deep memories!

Come not from the unseen Past,
  Flying up the silent gale,
  With that deep and muffled wail,
  Slaying me with lying tale,
Base chime, false chime from the Past! 
  Not in sighs of mortal pain,
  Pain and anguish rise again,
  Voices from the far Death-plain—­
Not thus speaks she from the Past.

Peace! yet—­for though she speaks not
  From her Paradise in thee,
  Whispers nevermore to me
  In my lonely misery,
Oh! that loved voice ne’er forgot,
Thou dost wake my brooding soul,
  Smit’st it till the bitter dole
  Breaks aloud beyond controul,
  While the briny tear-drops roll,
Drowning, cries which she hears not.

Cruel Bell! harsh Bell! ring on,
  I shall turn my heart to stone,
  Flinging back thy mocking tone,
  Callous of thy deepest moan
Lying Bell! thy power is gone! 
  Spake she from her golden cloud,
  Spake she to my heart aloud,
Every murmur of her voice,
Would bid my lone heart rejoice;
Every murmur of her voice,
Ah! would make my heart rejoice,
  Lying Bell! thy power is gone.

LLEWELLYN.

          I.—­In the Porch.

          MORGAN and a MONK.

MORGAN.

The tale is pitiful.  ’Twas on this wise—­
Llewellyn went at morn among the hills,
To hunt, as is his use.  My lady, too,
With all her maidens, early sallied forth,
A pilgrimage among the neighbouring vales,
Culling of simples, nor yet comes she home;
And so the child lay sleeping in his crib,
With Gelert—­you remember the old hound? 
He pull’d the stag of ten down by the Holy Well—­
With Gelert set to watch him like a nurse.

MONK.

The dog alone? nay! friend, but that is strange!

MORGAN.

Strange!  Not a whit, for fifty times before
The hound hath kept him like his own bred whelp,
And ne’er a one could touch him; but the child
Play’d with his shaggy ears and great rough coat,
As no grown man had dared.

MONK.

I know there is
A strange nobility in dogs, to bear
The utmost sport of children, that would seize
Man by the throat e’en for a finger touch—­
But to your tale—­

MORGAN.

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