‘I kolokolchick dor voltaia,’

as is also the immortal line which speaks of

  That tocsin of the soul—­the dinner-bell.’

But Schiller’s great ringing poem is superbly campanologistic; so is Southey’s ‘Inch Cope Bell,’ and to this division belong all tollings, fire-alarms, and knells in verse whatever.

The following lyric is, however, far above either, as it ambitiously embraces the whole subject, and therefore, so far as comprehensiveness is concerned, must of course take precedence even of Tennyson’s ’Ring Out!’

ABOUT BELLS.

  I was sitting, one night, in my easy-chair,
  When a bell’s clear notes rung out on the air;
  And a few stray thoughts, as this ballad tells,
  Came into my mind, about sundry bells: 

  About church-going bells, whose solemn chime
  Calls, far and near, ‘It’s time! it’s time!’
  While the worshiper goes, with a faith that is strong,
  For he knows he can trust their clear ‘Ding-dong!’

  Of deified bells, like Bel of old,
  With silver tongues and a ring of gold;
  While the many who run at their silvery call,
  Never reach the goal—­d; but tire and fall!

  Of modest bells, by the river’s side,
  As they meekly hang o’er the liquid tide;
  But are tongueless all, and their changes few,
  For they ever appear in a dress of blue.

  Of modern Belles, which the world well knows,
  Go all the ways that the fashion goes;
  And ring their chimes through an endless range,
  As they change their rattle, and rattle their ‘change.’

  Of divers’ bells, which are made to go,
  With their living freight, to the depths below;
  And are quiet quite, on their water ways,
  Save hen they are trying to ‘make a raise.’

Of door-bells, which our callers ring By a kind of a sort of a wire of a string; Answered oft, as wire-pullers ought to be—­ ‘Not at home!’ meaning, ‘Not in order to see!’

  About John Bells, one of whom, we know,
  Politicians rung not long ago;
  An unlucky Bell, and to-day a wreck,
  But fit, even now, to be wrung—­by the neck!

  About Isabelles, so diverse in kind,
  That the one you prefer isn’t hard to find;
  Yet hard ’tis to be in this all agreed—­
  Isabelle by name is a belle in-deed!

  And thus, as I sat in my easy-chair,
  While the bell’s clear notes rung through the air,
  Did a few stray thoughts, as this ballad tells,
  Come into my mind, about sundry bells.

* * * * *

’Is this ‘dreadful bad’?’ inquires a correspondent.  Gentle writer, it is not dreadful, neither is it bad; and we appeal to the reader to decide.  To our thought, it is as brave and wild a love-poem as we have seen for many a day: