The Lost Bells.

Year after year the artist wrought          With earnest, loving care,      The music flooding all his soul          To pour upon the air.      For this no metal was too rare,          He counted not the cost;      Nor deemed the years in which he toiled          As labor vainly lost.      When morning flushed with crimson light          The golden gates of day,      He longed to fill the air with chimes          Sweet as a matin's lay.      And when the sun was sinking low          Within the distant West,      He gladly heard the bells he wrought          Herald the hour of rest.      The music of a thousand harps          Could never be so dear      As when those solemn chants and thrills          Fell on his list'ning ear.      He poured his soul into their chimes,          And felt his toil repaid;      He called them children of his soul,          His home a'near them made.      But evil days came on apace,          War spread his banner wide,      And from his village snatched away          The artist's love and pride.      At dewy morn and stilly eve          The chimes no more he heard;      With dull and restless agony          His spirit's depths was stirred.      A weary longing filled his soul,          It bound him like a spell;      He left his home to seek the chimes -          The chimes he loved so well.      Where lofty fanes in grandeur rose,          Upon his ear there fell      No music like the long lost chimes          Of his beloved bell.      And thus he wandered year by year.          Touched by the hand of time,      Seeking to hear with anxious heart          Each well remembered chime.      And to that worn and weary heart          There came a glad surcease:      He heard again the dear old chimes,          And smiled and uttered peace.      "The chimes! the chimes!" the old man cried,          "I hear their tones at last;"      A sudden rapture filled his heart,          And all his cares were past.      Yes, peace had come with death's sweet calm,          His journeying was o'er,      The weary, restless wanderer          Had reached the restful shore.      It may be that he met again,          Enfolded in the air,      The dear old chimes beside the gates          Where all is bright and fair;      That he who crossed and bowed his head          When Angelus was sung      In clearer light touched golden harps          By angel fingers strung.