The Viennese authorities have melted down <br />the great bell in St. Stephen's to supply metal <br />for guns or muntions. Every poor village <br />has made a similar gift.—Lokal Anzeiger. <br /> <br /> <br />The great bell booms across the town, <br />Reverberant and slow, <br />And drifting from their houses down <br />The calm-eyed people go. <br />Their feet fall on the portal stones <br />Their fathers' fathers trod; <br />And still the bell, with reverent tones, <br />From cottage nooks and purple thrones <br />Is calling souls to God. <br /> <br />The chapel bells with ardor spake <br />Above the poplars tall, <br />And perfumed Sabbath seemed to wake. <br />Responsive to their call <br />From dappled vale and green hillside <br />And nestling village hives <br />The peasants came in simple pride <br />To hear how their Lord Jesus died <br />To sweeten all their lives. <br /> <br />They boom beyond the battered town; <br />The hills are belching smoke; <br />And valleys charred and ranges brown <br />Are quaking 'neath the stroke. <br />The iron roar to Heaven swells, <br />And domes and steeples nod; <br />Through cities vast and ferny dells <br />And village streets the clamant bells <br />Are calling souls to God!<br /><br />Edward George Dyson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-church-bells-2/
