“I have been told she died very young in a convent in the south,” replied Fontenelle; “and the odd thing is, that, when they were burying her, they found a crook attached to her horse-hair tunic.”

* * * * *

THE FOUNDING OF THE BELL.

WRITTEN FOR MUSIC.

BY CHARLES MACKAY.

  Hark! how the furnace pants and roars! 
  Hark! how the molten metal pours,
  As, bursting from its iron doors,
      It glitters in the sun! 
  Now through the ready mould it flows,
  Seething and hissing as it goes,
  And filling every crevice up
  As the red vintage fills the cup: 
      Hurra! the work is done!

  Unswathe him now.  Take off each stay
  That binds him to his couch of clay,
  And let him struggle into day;
      Let chain and pulley run,
  With yielding crank and steady rope,
  Until he rise from rim to cope,
  In rounded beauty, ribb’d in strength,
  Without a flaw in all his length: 
      Hurra! the work is done!

  The clapper on his giant side
  Shall ring no peal for blushing bride,
  For birth, or death, or new-year-tide,
      Or festival begun! 
  A nation’s joy alone shall be
  The signal for his revelry;
  And for a nation’s woes alone
  His melancholy tongue shall moan: 
      Hurra! the work is done!

  Borne on the gale, deep-toned and clear,
  His long loud summons shall we hear,
  When statesmen to their country dear
      Their mortal race have run;
  When mighty monarchs yield their breath,
  And patriots sleep the sleep of death,
  Then shall he raise his voice of gloom,
  And peal a requiem o’er their tomb: 
      Hurra! the work is done!

  Should foemen lift their haughty hand,
  And dare invade us where we stand,
  Fast by the altars of our land
      We’ll gather every one;
  And he shall ring the loud alarm,
  To call the multitudes to arm,
  From distant field and forest brown,
  And teeming alleys of the town: 
      Hurra! the work is done!

  And as the solemn boom they hear,
  Old men shall grasp the idle spear,
  Laid by to rust for many a year,
      And to the struggle run;
  Young men shall leave their toils or books,
  Or turn to swords their pruninghooks;
  And maids have sweetest smiles for those
  Who battle with their country’s foes: 
      Hurra! the work is done!

  And when the cannon’s iron throat
  Shall bear the news to dells remote,
  And trumpet-blast resound the note,
      That victory is won;
  While down the wind the banner drops,
  And bonfires blaze on mountain-tops,
  His sides shall glow with fierce delight,
  And ring glad peals from morn to night;
      Hurra! the work is done!