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In a Belgian Garden and Other Poems

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<h3> The Old School Bell </h3> I can hear it calling, calling, sounding on the morning breeze, As so often I have heard it call before, And its ringing thrills my spirit as the wind the whispering trees, But alas, I know for me it calls no more. Ah, how sweet the memory lingers! Though old Time's relentless fingers Oft have turned the glass while flowed the sands away, Yet I'd give the dearest treasure Hardly gained from Fortune's measure, Could I be a boy again for one short day. I can see the gleaming river 'mid the willows winding blue, I can hear the schoolboys shouting by the shore, Then the bell begins its calling, echoing the valley through, And the schoolboys turn toward the chapel door: Laggard footsteps, scarcely creeping, To the bell's low tolling keeping Measured tread, as oft before my own have done; Ah, the longing ceasing never For a part in life's endeavour, And to-day I count the gains that I have won! I can hear it calling, calling, though its tongue no longer swings, For within my heart its notes are ringing free, As with silent step before me, Memory the old scene brings And I think the old bell's voice is calling me. Then I see the old loved faces Grouped about their wonted places, As the boyish voices chant their song of praise; Gone all thought of joy or sorrow, Loss to-day or gain to-morrow, And I live again the life of other days. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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