There's a human look in its swelling breast,
And the gentle curve of its lowly crest;
And I often stop with the fear I feel--
He runs so close to the rapid wheel.

"Whatever is rung on that noisy bell--
Chime of the hour or funeral knell--
The dove in the belfry must hear it well.
When the tongue swings out to the midnight moon--
When the sexton cheerily rings for noon--
When the clock strikes clear at morning light--
When the child is waked with 'nine at night'--
When the chimes play soft in the Sabbath air,
Filling the spirit with love of prayer--
Whatever tale in the bell is heard,
He broods on his folded feet unstirr'd,
Or, rising half in his rounded nest,
He takes the time to smooth his breast,
Then drops again with filméd eyes,
And sleeps as the last vibration dies.

"Sweet bird! I would that I could be
A hermit in the crowd like thee!
With wings to fly to wood and glen.
Thy lot, like mine, is cast with men,
And daily, with unwilling feet,
I tread, like thee, the crowded street;
But, unlike me, when day is o'er,
Thou canst dismiss the world and soar;
Or, at a half-felt wish for rest,