Written on a Summer Evening
The church bells toll a melancholy round,Calling the people to some other prayers,Some other gloominess, more dreadful cares,More harkening to the sermon's horrid sound.Surely the mind of man is closely boundIn some blind spell: seeing that each one tearsHimself from fireside joys and Lydian airs,And converse high of those with glory crowned.Still, still they toll, and I should feel a damp,A chill as from a tomb, did I not knowThat they are dying like an outburnt lamp,—That 'tis their sighing, wailing, ere they goInto oblivion—that fresh flowers will grow,And many glories of immortal stamp.
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