Passion Flowers (Watson)/A Knell

A Knell.

Hush! Friar Time is telling his beads,
The old year lies a-dying!
Far in the belfry rings the knell,
"Slumber well—slumber well"—
While the winds are mockingly crying.

Hark! there's a sound in the graveyard dim,
And a whisper among the sleepers,
"There's a passing soul," the belfry rings,
While a bird of ill omen croaks and sings
Of Death, most cruel of reapers.

List! there's a stir in the long dead grass,
For the earth is awake and a-quiver,
While the wind laughs shrill and shrieks aloud,
And one sits hastily weaving a shroud,
And the trees are all a-shiver.

Hark to the loom, how the shuttle flies,
Back and forth in its weaving;
For woof and warp of the shroud it makes,
Lo! broken hopes and hearts it takes
Of the old year's fierce bereaving.

See! here's a chaplet to wind his brows,
Salt tears encrust the flowers;
Here are brazen coins his lids to press,
A thistle posie his hands to caress,
And clasp through eternal hours.

Hist! there are eerie sounds afloat,
With spectres the place is filling;
They'll hold a wake and gibe at the dead
In.whispers hoarse around his bed,
With the last hard struggle thrilling.

See! he'll be swathed in a winding sheet,
As a mummy his secrets folding,
In tissue of dreams and stifled songs
Of human cries and human wrongs,
His peace forever holding.

Quick! see the grave the ghouls have scooped,
With thick-ribbed ice for lining;
There's a ghostly laugh, the coffin falls,
"Ashes to ashes!" a phantom calls,
But there's not a breath of repining.

Here! lay him deep 'neath the frozen sod,
And hide in his grave forever
The days that are gone, the tears that are shed,
The griefs that were borne and words that were said;
Unearth them never—never.

Hush! the tapers burn out in the sky,
The Shades to their haunts are hieing,
And Time bends low his beads to tell,
While slow in the belfry tolls the knell,
"The old year lies a-dying."