What mattered it, whether or no there were a silver scutcheon on the
coffin-lid? "Open thy bosom, Mother Earth!" Thus spake the bell.
"Another of thy children is coming to his long rest. Take him to thy
bosom, and let him slumber in peace." Thus spake the bell, and Mother
Earth received her child. With the self-same tones will the present
generation be ushered to the embraces of their mother; and Mother Earth
will still receive her children. Is not thy tongue a-weary, mournful
talker of two centuries? O funeral bell! wilt thou never be shattered
with thine own melancholy strokes? Yea, and a trumpet-call shall arouse
the sleepers, whom thy heavy clang could awake no more!

Again--again thy voice, reminding me that I am wasting the "midnight
oil." In my lonely fantasy, I can scarce believe that other mortals have
caught the sound, or that it vibrates elsewhere than in my secret soul.
But to many hast thou spoken. Anxious men have heard thee on their
sleepless pillows, and bethought themselves anew of to-morrow's care. In
a brief interval of wakefulness, the sons of toil have heard thee, and
say, "Is so much of our quiet slumber spent?--is the morning so near at
hand?" Crime has heard thee, and mutters, "Now is the very hour!"
Despair answers thee, "Thus much of this weary life is gone!" The young
mother, on her bed of pain and ecstasy, has counted thy echoing strokes,
and dates from them her first-born's share of life and immortality. The
bridegroom and the bride have listened, and feel that their night of
rapture flits like a dream away. Thine accents have fallen faintly on
the ear of the dying man, and warned him that, ere thou speakest again,
his spirit shall have passed whither no voice of time can ever reach.
Alas for the departing traveller, if thy voice--the voice of fleeting
time--have taught him no lessons for Eternity!