No. VI.


THE LAY OF THE BELL.

"Vivos voco--Mortuous plango--Fulgura frango."

Fast, in its prison-walls of earth,
Awaits the mould of bakèd clay.
Up, comrades, up, and aid the birth--
THE BELL that shall be born to-day!
And wearily now,
With the sweat of the brow,
Shall the work win its grace in the master's eye,
But the blessing that hallows must come from high.

And well an earnest word beseems
The work the earnest hand prepares;
Its load more light the labour deems,
When sweet discourse the labour shares.
So let us ponder--nor in vain--
What strength has wrought when labour wills;
For who would not the fool disdain
Who ne'er can feel what he fulfills?
And well it stamps our Human Race,
And hence the gift TO UNDERSTAND,
When in the musing heart we trace
Whate'er we fashion with the hand.

From the fir the fagot take,